Solace
by Pachelbel
Summary: Malik has returned to Domino with Isis and Rishid, partly against his will, after a stay in an asylum. Unfortunately, it all gets worse from there.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: YuGiOh! And all its characters belong to Kazuke Takahashi. The story has earned me no moolah what so ever, and it's just another excuse for me not to pay attention in classes.

A/N: Yet another story written from a dream I had; well, it's loosely based, anyway. Thought I'd take Malik out for some good ol' torture and angst.

  
  


Solace

  
  


PROLOGUE:

  
  


Malik's icy violet eyes watered as his stomach clenched and, painfully, sour bile spilled out from his mouth, plastering his white shirt to his chest. 

His body shivered until his head ached from the force of it. The smell of his vomit made him retch again, but there as so little left in his system that it never even made it past his throat. It burned his esophagus and made him feel impossibly worse when he was forced to swallow it.

Dr. Newton stood just inside Malik's room, watching with a look of fascination and disgust on his round face. Malik hadn't noticed him, or if he had, he was pretending not to. 

The Egyptian sank to the ground. He had only gotten up in an effort to rush to his small bathroom, but now that there was no point, he didn't feel like making the 'trek' back to his bed. Despite the trembling of his body, he was comfortably warm; the floor would do fine for now.

"Hungry, anyone?" a jovial voice rang in Malik's ears. "Come on, get changed, Malik." Dr. Newton came into his line of sight. "I'll even hook up a TV for you."

"Shut up!" Malik screamed, lashing out at Newton but hitting only air.

Newton sighed. "Now you've lost free time privileges. These bouts of violence disturb me, Malik; have you always felt the need to solve your problems this way?" Malik shivered and glared warningly at the man, but otherwise stayed still. Newton continued, softer, "Are you going to let me check your blood pressure, or do I need to call a nurse?"

"Where...is I-Is-sis?"

"If you behave, I'll tell you." Shivering more uncontrollably by the second, Malik nodded. "Good."

Newton wrapped the cuff tightly around Malik's biceps, tightened it; waited, released the air pressure slightly and pressed his stethoscope against Malik's arm. "80 over 50. Very good.**"

"M-my sis-ster."

Newton rose to his feet. "She's here. But I think that you're too violent for visitors. Now get changed" the doctor tossed a clean shirt at him "and I'll see you tomorrow." He turned and the door opened for him.

"No! No! Isis, Isis please! Isis!" Malik screamed, scrambling for the door.

Newton kicked him back and pulled the door shut, leaving the Egyptian along in a sound proof room calling for a woman Newton had, in fact, never met. Though he hoped very much that he would...

  
  


~~

Malik lay on his bed, tears soaking his stiff hospital pillow. How long he'd been trapped here, he could only guess. He thought it must have been about a month, maybe a few weeks more than that. It had been years since he'd bothered to keep count of time at all. But soon, he knew, someone would be coming.

The locks to his door clicked open and light spilled over his trembling frame. "Come along, Mister Ishtar." Two burly orderlies walked in.

"I lost my free time privilege," Malik said hoarsely.

"We know. You're not getting free time."

He was taken to a large, white room, nearly identical to the free time room, except that this one lacked the "Game Room"'s expensive pool table and television/DVD set. Malik was pushed down onto a battered orange sofa. 5 other people, each with guards of their own, were sitting around the room in nearly the same shaking, sick state Malik was in.

Above them, they heard sobbing and screaming. Malik, who was well-versed in torture, could make accurate guesses as to what was going on up there.

In the Game Room, he had mostly laid around while the other patients conversed or played pool, or cards. While lying about and ignoring his surroundings, he had become aware that during 'free time', screams could be heard from the rooms overhead.

So far, there had only been rapes; no hot knives, no flaying, no beatings. A different patient every night (or day), as well, so he figured his number was coming up. But it wouldn't be Malik who would scream when that night came. That would be the hour in which he escaped...after he killed the esteemed Dr. Newton, of course.

The other patients had paled several shades; some of them even cried. Malik watched them, feeling numbed and disjointed. The nausea had passed for the time being, and he was beginning to sweat, despite the chill that had settled over his body. 'Yami...' he thought, his mind calling out to the- No. Calling to his own darker half. Not to the Pharaoh.

No matter what he had said at the end of their duel ('We will meet as friends' or some crap), he had only meant that he no longer considered the Pharaoh his immortal enemy. Weakness like this would never be seen by anyone but Rishid or Isis.

The screaming had stopped. Someone had exited that room and was probably coming downstairs.

Malik realized with a start that Newton (he had no doubt that the 'good doctor' was the one causing the pain for those unfortunate patients upstairs) was probably going to choose his next victim from those who were trapped in this room. Those who he was punishing.

Malik glared at the only door. He didn't have long to wait before the pudgy Doctor entered, his standard white lab coat slung over one shoulder.

"Well. I hope you are all aware, at least somewhat, of the penalties for breaking too many rules. Consider this your warning; you will have two. For one of you, this is already your second." He pointed to a girl near Malik. "Katherine. Your punishment will commence tomorrow evening. In the meantime, you will be given your meds and sent back to your rooms."

Malik stared as the orderlies produced various bottles of pills or fluids. His hands shook a little more furiously, despite his efforts to stop them. The younger of his guards walked over and held out a single red and yellow pill.

Malik nearly crushed it between his fingers in his hasty grab at it, but quickly tossed it to the back of his throat and swallowed. A small paper cup was held out to him, and he downed the little mouthful of water in one gulp.

Afterwards, he was hauled to his feet and led back down the corridor. He could feel the medicine working, though slowly; it began as a tingling in his feel and hands, then worked its way up to relieve his blinding headache. He felt as if he were floating, though his senses were all heightened somewhat; the fear he had felt earlier was gone.

All he had to do now was make sure he broke another rule.

  
  


***

Business was high for the Turtle Gameshop. Yugi had been busy all week, running around giving advice to customers and trying desperately to keep everything well stocked. He knew that more than a few things had been stolen in the crowd, but knew also that there was no use worrying about that now.

His feet ached by the end of the day. After the last person had left and he'd been able to turn the 'Open!' sign around ('Please Come Again!'), it was well into the night.

Yugi groaned as he sat down and pulled off his shoes. "It's been a busy day, hasn't it?" the teen said aloud, knowing that he would be heard.

"Hm. A busy month, in fact. I've been quite impressed with your ability to handle it all, Yugi." A ghostly form appeared beside him.

Yugi smiled. "Thanks. Grandpa's better at it, but sometimes he scares off customers." His large purple eyes gazed out at the half moon. "Wow. I think this is the latest we've been open in a long time."

Yami walked over to the window, knowing that his opaque form wouldn't block Yugi's view. "I'm glad I could help your business grow."

Yugi laughed. "Well, you did do that." He frowned slightly. "You have your memories back now, don't you?"

Slightly darker eyes turned to him briefly. "Most of them."

"Why don't you ever talk about them? I know they were very important to you; it all makes me...curious."

"Unless you have a profound interest in history, I don't think you'll want to hear it."

"But I do," Yugi protested, standing up. "It's your past, Yami. I want to know about it." But the spirit remained silent. 

Yami's vision blurred with unnatural tears, which he was able to will away before Yugi ever saw them. He knew the boy cared for him; the feeling was mutual, of course. But that was why he couldn't tell him...Yami himself could barely stand the majority of the images that were flooding back into his mind. He had been called a "courageous Pharaoh"; he would wait until his memories confirmed that, even a little, before he would tell Yugi anything.

Telling him what he'd seen so far was foolish and premature; it wouldn't help anything. In fact, it would probably make Yugi's life that much harder. The spirit knew these were flimsy excuses, and if he really were courageous, he'd just come right out and tell Yugi of the barbaric things that went on in ancient Egypt. Yet...Yami couldn't do it.

Because Yami couldn't bear the thought of losing Yugi's trust...not now...


	2. Chapter Two

A/N: Oops! Heh, I forgot to mention this in the first chapter: 80 over 50 blood pressure is *not* good, especially in an otherwise-healthy 17 year old sexy Egyptian male. It's BAD. It means that Malik's pulse is thready, quick, and weak. Newton is making Malik *very* sick.

Tea is now ANZU. Joey is still Joey, because it's easier. Tristan is Tristan because I played too much Street Fighter with Henry and Winston when we were younger, and I always chose E. Honda, so I can't call Tristan 'Honda' because it will make me laugh too much.

  
  


ChApTeR 2

  
  


Malik dreamt again of the last night he'd had of freedom. The night he had completely wasted. 

He'd come to see his life at this hospital as something that Fate had ordained, and therefore, nothing he could have done would have prevented his capture. So his biggest regret was that he had completely, utterly wasted his moments of precious freedom.

  
  


January 3.

Rain fell into Malik's eyes. The garbage around him was sour smelling; his tongue felt thick in his mouth, and it was sour, too. He laughed in spite of it all and took another swig of rum. From aspirations of being Pharaoh to being drunk in a stinking alleyway. If his father could only see him now.

Isis was somewhere in this city. Whatever city it was; he'd been drunk on the plane, too, and had long since forgotten the travel plans his sister had made. Rishid...who knew where Rishid was. He wasn't nearby, Malik was sure of that, unless his friend had turned into a filthy gray rat.

"Get outta here!" Malik slurred, throwing half a broken bottle at one of the rats that had ventured too close to his feet.

He was seated on a pile of trash next to a dumpster, back leaned against the cold, wet bricks of a lingerie store. The other building that created the alley was abandoned, but had once been a bad fast food restaurant.

Some of his drink had been spilled on his shirt. It was silk...didn't silk stain easily? Malik grumbled a curse before taking another swig. It was nearly empty now. With a sigh, Malik let the bottle slip from his fingers and roll to the cracked, muddy pavement.

It was too cold to sleep, unfortunately. But on the other hand, Malik would probably have a headache when he woke up, so maybe it was better to stay awake.

"Malik Ishtar?" An unfamiliar voice came from near the lingerie shop, still under the eaves of the store and therefore out of the rain.

"Yeah? Who're you?" He squinted at the figure, not recognizing them any better for it.

"Doctor Newton. I'm with Mountain Mental Institution. Will you come with us?"

"No, gotta wait here for my sister." Malik frowned. "Not my sister...Rishid."

Newton looked over his shoulder at two men Malik couldn't, as yet, see. "He's completely soused. Just take him."

  
  


~*~*~

Today:

  
  


"I don't know what to do, Anzu." Yugi listlessly stirred the concoction his friend had put together in a mixing bowl. He couldn't even remember what they were making.

"About what?" Anzu had noticed Yugi's distraction, but so far had barely managed in getting him to respond to his own name. Now it looked like he was finally willing to talk. She should have known; cookies always did the trick.

Yugi sighed, not seeming to have heard her. "Yami has been acting so strange lately. I know he has his memories back, but he won't tell them to me. Whatever they are, they've really bothered him. I can hardly even talk to him anymore."

Anzu handed over the chocolate chips, which Yugi took without a glance and then toyed with. "I mean, if talking doesn't work, and he won't let me see his dreams, I don't know what's left. I wish he'd see that I can help him."

"But you are, Yugi!" Anzu protested. "By being his friend, aren't you helping him? Maybe he's just not ready to talk."

Her friend, who was standing on a chair and for once eye-level with her, finally responded. "I guess he's not." This was said slowly, as if he'd already thought of it. "But he still needs to. Because really... I'm all he has."

He looked hurriedly at Anzu, apologies written all over his youthful face. "Well, of course he has you, too, but it's been a long time since you-"

"Don't worry, I know what you mean," Anzu smiled. She took the chocolate, tore open the bag, and dumped the contents into the bowl. "If all else fails, you can make cookies with him. It's always worked for me."

*~*~*

Malik had tried everything, but Dr. Newton hadn't been by to see him since the night 'warnings' were issued. Malik had fought with the other patients, or the orderlies, or a nurse; he'd messed up the Game Room and his own cell. Once, one of the guards had tried to sedate him, but failed at getting closer than a leg's length to the Egyptian.

Now his antics were ignored. He hadn't heard any noises from the level above the Game Room in over a week (or perhaps more). He didn't believe for an instant that Newton had suddenly gained a conscience (if those existed), and decided to stop... But Malik couldn't imagine what else was going on.

It turned out the good doctor had been out to a seminar.

With all of the malpractice going on in this hospital, Malik had to admit Newton had guts, to show his face in a room full of renowned surgeons.

Yet even after his return, when Malik was reported as a troublesome patient, even then Newton didn't take him away. Nor did he even offer the dreaded 'second warning'. Malik finally had to resign himself to the apparent fact that Newton was a pervert who was only out to prey on girls.

Malik had been turning these events over in his mind, lounging on his bed, when Dr. Newton entered for the customary physical exam and questionaire. "Well, Malik, how have you felt? The medication working for you?"

The Egyptian turned a glare on him. "I don't *need* medication, if that's even what you're giving me."

"Hm. You think I would give you something that wouldn't help you?"

"Precisely." Malik bit out.

"Developing paranoia...interesting." Newton scribbled something down in the manila file that bore Malik's name.

"Paranoia? I'm not paranoid! I know what you've been doing!"

Newton wrote something more down. "Tell me about..." he glanced at his notes "Bakura."

That completely threw Malik off guard. "Ba...what? How did you-?"

"Mr. Smith," Newton gestured at the door, "heard you calling for 'Bakura' in your sleep." But Malik remained silent. Yet another note was taken. Seconds passed in frozen quiet, until, "Do you still think you're a Pharaoh?"

"What?"

"After the drugs kicked in yesterday, you kept saying things like, 'I don't want to be Pharaoh anymore'." Dark eyes watched Malik intently.

"It was a dream," the boy hissed. "I'm not a Pharaoh. I never was, and I know that."

Infuriatingly, more hidden sentences were written in the folder. "Well," Newton said at last. "I think we've spent enough time on this for today."

When the Doctor left, food was brought: soggy toast, a glass of water, and mashed peaches. Malik wondered if that meant it was breakfast time, or if they'd just not bothered to prepare anything else.

Though in the end, it didn't really matter.

  
  


*~*~*

  
  


The Dark Magician. Draped in royal purple, frozen forever on the face of a card, still had cold eyes that gleamed out of the shadows.

Yami stared at his Dark Magician card, remembering the last duel he had fought in Egypt; he'd won using this very monster. That day was still very foggy, but for once his lack of memory didn't annoy him.

Slowly he shuffled to the next card.

The God of Ra card met his gaze, baring its fangs, wings fanned out behind it. And then a much more recent duel came to mind, one that had again ensured his eternal place as Pharaoh, and saved the world from the maniacal rule of Malik Ishtar.

Unlike the misty images from his past, the modern memories gave Yami comfort. Dark half of Yugi's soul or not, surely saving the world redeemed him from the horrific deeds he had left in Ancient Egypt.

Gently, he took the card from his deck, remembering the duel's every aspect.

Malik, too, had done things that he now regretted, and in the name of Pharaoh. Yami scoffed at the irony.

Ishtar had said that when they met again, they would be friends. This Yami had, at the time, written off as someone who simply wished to escape judgement. Now he knew there was much more to it. It had been the pleading of a torn, guilty soul for forgiveness.

He remembered the look of agony in Malik's eyes when he saw at last just what he had given up, or had taken from him, over so many years.

"Yami?" Yugi asked.

"What is it?" Yami quickly placed the card back.

"Is something wrong?" Yami was about to deny that there was, but Yugi continued, "You're thinking about Malik, aren't you. Do you think he went back to Egypt with his sister?"

"I don't know," Yami admitted. "I know that I wouldn't be prepared to return so quickly, if I had done what he did. But I doubt he stayed in Japan. We know that Isis left, probably taking Rishid and Malik with her...By now, he could be anywhere."

"I hope he doesn't give up gaming altogether. He was a good duelist," Yugi said, looking over at the case where he kept Isis's and Malik's Millennium Items.

Yami didn't answer.


	3. Chapter Three

Pachelbel's Q&A: Yay! Reviewers! *glomps* I'm enjoying writing this. It seems every time I enjoy writing something, people ignore it, but the crazy ones they love...*sigh* Ah, well. Yep, it's got a plot! *huge grin* And...er...I haven't actually seen the whole series. I've read the very last 4 mangas where Malik is featured. I don't have money, or else I'd have loaded up on the show, and since sometimes mangas are different from the anime, I didn't put up a Spoiler warning. BUT, if you go to E-bay, they almost always have the series (non-dubbed, with English--or Chinese--sub-titles) up for bids.

  
  


ChApTeR ThReE

  
  


Two Years Ago:

Snow lay in a thick, frozen, 2 foot blanket over everything in sight. Familiar objects were strange and obscured by the white, muffling substance. Even people were unrecognizable now, covered from head to toe with heavy clothes to hide them from the winter's wind.

Malik Ishtar stared in bewilderment at the foreign sight.

He had grown up under the harsh desert sun; his dark skin was evidence of that. Snow, to him, was a thing of distant lands. A legend, even. Isis had told him that snow was colder than the darkest Egyptian night. Malik had trouble imagining anything like that; he had spent those nights (which were never cold enough to freeze water) shivering near the stove. But here he was, far from Egypt, and he had to go to school. The Pharaoh would be there.

Experimentally, he opened the front door and stuck his bare foot into the powdery snow bank that awaited him. The blond teen yelped in horror at the biting wetness and staggered back inside, slamming the door shut. What in all the underworld was that?

Malik peered dismally out the window. "What am I going to do?" he groaned.

He searched his room for winter clothing, hoping idly that his shirts had magically grown sleeves. But no. Aside from color, his shirts were all alike: smooth silk, showing off his well toned abs and sleek, muscular arms. That was all well and good, but the snow would surely kill him before he'd taken ten steps if he didn't find something to wear.

He went to Rishid's room and scoured his friend's closet. He found a little-used black sweat shirt and quickly pulled it on over his bare shoulders. It was several sizes too big, but Malik didn't notice. He then yanked on a knit, short-sleeved white shirt and went back to his room to finish changing, as Rishid's pants were not at all likely to fit him.

Once his thickest pair of pants were on, and his boots laced up, he searched the house up and down for a cloak. He found none, but now he was sweating from the frantic search while laden with so many more layers of clothing than he was used to.

Malik decided to brave the weather. He was wasting time, and besides, it wasn't all that far to the school, was it?

The youngest Ishtar was met with a very strange sight when he had trudged all the way down the slushy side-street his apartment was on. Where there had been a lake was now a snow field, and several little kids were playing on it.

Malik stood, blinking, and then decided to take advantage of this sudden transformation. The school was straight across the lake, and he could even see it.

He was almost past the middle when the dark ice caved under his weight. Frigid water enveloped him as he sank.

Today:

Malik jerked awake, and the memory of the first snowfall he'd ever seen suddenly vanished. He was intensely grateful that he could no longer hear the creak and groan of fresh snow under his feet, or the squealing crack of breaking ice, or the rush of water filling his ears.

He'd been so young then. 15 or so; before he had founded GHOUL, which was the real 'maturing' point in his life. Perhaps he dared call it 'maturity' now because his life as master of countless minds had forced him to find more and more ways to deal with guilt. All of them had failed.

He didn't remember what had happened after falling beneath the ice. Obviously, someone had saved him, but who or why Malik supposed he would never know. If his rescuer had known that Malik had been on his way to kill someone, then he'd probably have been left to die.

Unless Rishid had saved him. Where had Rishid been that morning, anyway?

...Where was he now?

  
  


*~*~*

  
  


The Moto kitchen was turning into a war zone.

Flour and chocolate powder created a thick cloud in the air which even the ventilation fan above the stove failed to clear. Cans lay sitting out of open cabinets; many of those containers had been knocked over and then pushed across the room by busy feet. Droplets of milk, water, and eggs spattered the counters and floor.

Yami stared in disbelief. "Tell me again why you wanted to make brownies with me."

Yugi's expression was one of amazed horror. He had just put the pan of brownie batter into the oven, and now his mind was taking in the awful mess his yami had created. "It's not just my fault, or yours." He offered.

"I know. I'm sorry. There weren't so many useless ingredients in the palace kitchen. Or...at least, I don't think there were. I don't suppose I did much cooking then." Yugi's mood lifted at Yami's mention of life in Ancient Egypt. It made the hours of cleaning ahead of them worthwhile.

"Oh, it's alright," Yugi smiled to assure his yami that he accepted the apology. "If I'd shown you where everything was, we wouldn't have had to make this mess."

Yami peered into the oven while Yugi tasted the remaining batter. "Besides, Yami, it really turned out nice."

The former Pharaoh straightened and smiled at that.

This cooking-bonding experience hadn't gone as successfully as his time with Anzu had, but he could tell the spirit was in a better mood now. And if Yami hadn't been scrambling around 'making things more efficient', they might have had a more productive conversation.

"Maybe we'll make something easier next time," Yugi said thoughtfully, gathering rags to mop up the worst of the messes.

"Hm." Yami answered. "Like ice water?"

  
  


*~*~*

  
  


Malik had been behaving for well over a week now. He knew that the Doctor, despite all the 'privileges' he was handing out (decent food, an extra blanket, more free time) was steadily breaking Malik's body down.

He could sense his loss of weight. At times, he could feel his heart pounding in his chest so hard it made him feel as though his rib cage were rattling; his body shook from exertion if he stood for more than a few minutes.

As well, long-forgotten memories were resurfacing. Newton explained this as being caused by two things: Malik's recovery from Multiple Personality Disorder (something Malik was still not sure he'd ever had. His yami had been real...hadn't he? Regardless, he wasn't about to try explaining the Millennium Items). And also a side effect of the drugs.

Every couple of days, the medication was cut off. Malik would go through withdrawals, Newton would do a few examinations, ranging from simple things like blood pressure and bone density, to blood and urine tests. When this was done, Newton would give his patient the medication back.

Malik began to build his own supply when he could no longer stand the thought of showing so much weakness around Newton. No matter how much the drugs were hurting him, when he was off of them it was a thousand times worse. So every other day he would palm his pill, find a way to distract the nurse (not difficult for Malik) and then stash it. Because of Newton's random orders to stop giving out meds, it wasn't a reliable way to count days, but it was better than nothing. It helped to have even that little bit of power placed back in his hands.

Always his thoughts turned to escape.

When his stash held forty pills, he felt it was time. He couldn't wait any longer, or become any weaker.

During his extended free time, he worked on rousing the other patients into a riot. It wasn't hard. Some of them must have been in their testing-withdrawal week, to be so irritable and aggressive.

Malik stayed back, inching his way along the wall to the door. He was in no condition to fight, and wouldn't have jumped into the frenzy if he had been in good health. He would shove the other patients if they lost interest, quickly anger them, and send them back to the enemy, but otherwise kept himself out of the way.

Soon the door opened and six orderlies raced in. Malik wasted no time in abandoning the room.

Once out in the hall, he ran, hoping he could find an exit. He had no idea if there were cameras, or how many guards there were or where they were stationed. In truth he didn't even know which direction he was going, what time it was, or...

Once he turned another corner, he stopped short.

The lights in this hall were all covered by red cellophane, which blended all color into shadow. The strange pounding he had heard was much louder here, and offset by cages rattling and low moans.

Malik knew the doors didn't lock on the outside. The administration took off the doorknobs inside the cells and replaced them with coded, fingerprint activated security locks. It would be very easy to see what was in those rooms, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to get back out again.

On the other hand, Newton wouldn't think to look for him *inside* a cell. In the end, Malik chose to pass this hall without stopping. The moaning and screaming became harsher as he walked by each room. Though all of these doors had windows, metal privacy screens were blocking the sight of any curious eyes.

About six doors down, he found an open window. His legs froze altogether, and he peered inside to a crowded room. It was filled with the same rushed thoughtlessness of a ship's medical galley during wartime.

A long table held dozens of supplies and medicines. Near that on a metal operating table, half covered by a soft white blanket, a man slept on his stomach. He was only a few years older than Malik, if age could reliably be guessed from such an awkward angle.

Stitched to the man's back were blood-stained white wings, like a dove's, but large enough to fit a human.

Next to the operating table in a cage sat a smaller human. Malik couldn't tell if it was male or female. Human-sized bat ears had replaced its original ears; black claws protruded from the tips of the scarred fingers which gripped its cage bars. Its eyes were large, and dilated; they lacked the sclera that humans had. Even from the dim hallway, Malik could see that this person didn't yet have its wings. Malik supposed that would be in next week's operation.

Four more patients were there; one was half-covered by scales, and yellow venom ran from her open mouth while she slept.

Malik heard footsteps from the direction he had just come, and forced himself to run.

  
  


*~*~*

  
  


Seto Kaiba was young, but already a shrewd businessman and leader. When he spoke, it was with a purpose. He hated wasting time, and those who dared to use an undue amount of it soon regretted it.

Shiro Motsamoru found himself squirming under the teen's penetrating blue gaze, while he waited for Kaiba to acknowledge him. Like a peasant kneeling before a king, Shiro mused.

"Let me get this straight," Kaiba said at last. "You're here asking for donations from KaibaCorp."

Shiro nodded slowly, resenting his intimidation at the hands of one so young. " Yes. For Forest Hills Mental Institution."

Kaiba stared at him. "But you're just their lawyer."

Shiro hid his surprise at those words, and decided to pretend that he'd known all along Kaiba had knowledge of his true career. "My firm is known for doing special projects for our clients."

Kaiba scoffed, glancing down at a single sheet of paper on his desk. "Your 'firm' consists of only you and your cousin." Shiro's respect for Kaiba's ability to gather intelligence on other people went up a few more notches. Kaiba went on, "In fact you lost most of your business six years ago, did you not?"

Shiro sighed. "If you will, Mister Kaiba, I'd like to show you Forest Hills' need for contributions at this time." 

He reached for his briefcase, but Kaiba spoke, "There's no need. I've had my own dealings with the mentally unsound and I'd rather have them off the streets and away from me. I have work to do, so take this check and get out." He slid a thin, rectangular slip of paper across the immaculate black desktop.

Shiro took it, but when he looked up, Kaiba's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I just want you to realize that I can find out where my money is whenever I choose."

Shiro looked back at the six-figure number on the check. "Th-thank you!" He gathered his coat and briefcase and rushed out the door.

Doctor Newton would be very pleased.


	4. Chapter Four

A/N: Thank you, Llyxius! Yep, readers, Llyxius is my beta, and so this chapter will be about a thousand times better than the previous ones!

whistles/ Here I am, with an update to my most unpopular fic. This story's so fun to write, though, so please leave a review for me… Thankith. LoL, and I loved all the reviewers telling Malik to run away! Those cracked me up!!

Solace

ChApTeR FoUr

Outside the hospital it was humid and cold. Fog rolled off of a nearby lake to sneak up tree trunks and slither across the dark, wet ground. The moon had yet to rise, which made the land that much more ominously silent.

It was in this heavily wooded, ethereal scene that Malik found himself when he at long last found an exit. Blindly, he ran forward, the thought of the doctors making him unwilling to stop, but he was unable to make his legs go any faster. Newton had every possible advantage, Malik knew, except for proof that Malik was not actually hiding inside the sanitarium.

The ground was slick with wet, rotting leaves that had never been raked. Never would be raked. Again and again this threatened to take Malik's footing, but he refused to slow down.

A dirt road led the way from a main road to the hospital, which Malik found after a while.

Patches of asphalt clung to the muddy path, evidence that long ago someone had cared where the awful building was. Malik stumbled to the end of the lane, where it joined with a two-lane, more modern road. Nothing was in sight except wilderness and thick white fog.

He crossed the street and collapsed into a dike, gasping for breath as his heart beat almost painfully against his ribcage. He was too exhausted to keep going but too irritated with his weakened condition to give up. Malik closed his eyes, air filling his lungs more easily now, and waited for the rushing pulse in his head to stop.

Abruptly, he was hauled off the ground by one much more powerful than he.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The classroom's silence was thick.

Yugi's attention tried to wander from the notes he was reviewing, and nearly succeeded. Again. Yugi felt like slapping himself. How many times was he given a second chance to study before a semester final? Never? And here he was, thinking of other things, like maybe saving up for a trip to Bermuda.

But why wait? He'd give anything to be in Bermuda right now, warm on the beach, listening to the ocean rise and fall. Or if not Bermuda, then anywhere, really, except this classroom where--

Yugi grimaced, realizing his thoughts had slid away from him again. But after the dream last night (one where he was frozen and made to watch things being built, or born, and then slowly decayed) he felt as if he hadn't slept at all.

He stole a glance over at Joey and Ryou, hoping they didn't look worried over the upcoming test. Ryou was scowling at his notes, silently mouthing the words as he read them. Joey was glaring fiercely at his desk, looking confused and frustrated.

On the other side of the room, Seto Kaiba was calmly moving through the highlights of past lectures. /_Soaking it all in like a sponge_,/ Yugi mused morosely. This was hopeless.

Back to Bermuda, then.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Malik struggled against the taller man, but it didn't seem to do any good, no matter where he hit.

Gradually, he realized that the words his attacker spoke were Arabic, and…and he knew that voice.

He craned his neck to look over his shoulder and saw:

"Rishid!" Malik was released. He immediately threw his arms around his old friend. "Rishid." Now his voice quavered, but he was past caring.

Large hands gently clasped Malik's shoulders, which was just the servant's way of returning his master's embrace. "Your sister and I have been worried."

Malik pulled back. "Where is she?"

"She is also searching for you." Rishid was leading Malik through a seemingly invisible path through the forest. "I saw your abductors carrying you and chose to follow. My deepest apologies for being unable to stop them."

Despite the guilt-racked tone in Rishid's voice, Malik felt like screaming at him that he _should_ be sorry; that he should have _done_ something. But every time he looked up at the tall man, he found that he couldn't.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

They reached a hotel around two in the morning. Rishid left Malik sitting half-conscious in the lobby and went to check in. The younger of the pair had time for a nap before Rishid returned and led him to room 118. At about three-thirty, Malik came out of the room's bathroom, toweling his hair and wearing only a pair of flannel pajama pants that Rishid had given him.

The steam pouring out of the room was as much proof to the temperature of the water used as Malik's flushed red skin.

Rishid was sitting on the foot of one of the full-sized beds, staring at a TV commercial for cat food.

"Holiday Inn: Portland, huh?" Malik read the plaque above the TV that proudly boasted the hotel's location. Oregon…quite a ways from San Francisco. Malik frowned suddenly. "Where did you get the money?"

Rishid's serious yellow eyes turned to him. "I apologize. I had to use yours. You left your wallet with me in San Francisco after the third liquor store."

His friend's memory for details always had impressed the younger Egyptian. Rishid stood up and reached into his pocket for the wallet, but Malik shrugged and tossed his damp towel under the sink.

"I trust you with my belongings more than I do myself right now, Rishid." He stretched out on his bed with a contented sigh. "Besides, there are no doctors or cockroaches here, so I'll live."

After a moment of silence Malik found himself examining his new pants, and doubting that they came as a standard issue for guests. "Where did you get these?"

"They would not rent the room to me," Rishid's mellow baritone timbre relaxed Malik more than he thought possible, especially after the long months in the asylum. "And as you are only seventeen, they wouldn't rent to you, either. So I had to use your cash to buy this room from a newlywed couple; they were only too happy to take more money than this room was worth, but I could think of no other option. I see that you have kept quite a bit of Bakura's loot."

Malik's eyes were closed, so he was unaware of Rishid's studious gaze upon him. The blond grunted an answer to the mention of Bakura, but otherwise seemed asleep.

Rishid wouldn't yet broach the subject of Malik's health. He could see plainly that his master was ill. Malik's skin tone was still something most people would call a 'healthy golden glow', but having spent his whole life with the young Ishtar, Rishid knew he was much too pale to be healthy. Malik's cheekbones stood out sharply; the kohl under his eyes was long since rubbed away and anything that might have remained was washed off by his long shower. In place of the black markings, there were dark hollows, which gave him a shrunken, haunted look.

It made him appear much more vulnerable, somehow. With no shirt on, Rishid could see very plainly Malik's ribs. His once finely-sculpted chest was now laboring for breath. His skin was nearly gaunt over a slightly skeletal frame. Rishid felt a flash of violent anger for Malik's abductors. The younger Egyptian was weak before, from the loss of his yami, but now… Now what would they do? How was he expected to recover? The captivity may not have plunged him back into hateful delusions; it might even have pulled him away from bordering on alcoholism. But what exactly had it done, to make Rishid tremble so with fear of…he knew not what.

Silently, he looked back at the mindless nonsense displayed on the television screen while his master fell into a short, dark few hours of sleep.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Malik crawled around on the stained carpet, searching for his shoes and socks. There was a free breakfast waiting for him downstairs, and the thought of something edible that hadn't been forced through a blender by Doctor Newton made him almost mad with hunger.

"I called your sister."

Malik yelped and spun to face Rishid. He hadn't realized that his silent friend was even awake.

Rishid continued as if nothing had happened, "She went back to Japan, hoping that perhaps Pharaoh could help her find you. I, naturally, told her that you are quite all right. She wants us to go back to Domino so that she can see for herself."

"You called her in Japan?"

"She has a cell phone."

"Oh." No Millennium Rod meant that they wouldn't be getting free, first-class seats. Malik sighed. "Do I have anything left to buy plane tickets with?"

"Yes, of course. As I said, Bakura seems to have left you very well endowed. Or rather, you left Bakura after becoming well endowed."

Malik stopped, his left boot half on and half off. He wasn't sure that he wanted to see the silver-haired pair…not now, or ever. He was having enough trouble dealing from afar with his guilt over the pain he had caused Ryou Bakura. He certainly didn't need any more baiting from the spirit of the Ring.

But surely there could be a way to avoid seeing him. Seeing Isis would be worth risking seeing Bakura.

Shaking his head, Malik pulled his boot on the rest of the way and stood up. "Did you know that we get a free breakfast?"

Rishid regarded him silently, not offering an answer because none was expected. Malik scrubbed his hands through his hair to free the tangles and then headed out the door, knowing that he would be followed.

"Rob! Get more coffee!" A woman's voice, one that sounded as if she'd been eating gravel, was the first thing that Malik and Rishid noticed when they entered the hotel's tiny restaurant. Three other families were already seated at the scuffed tables, and at least six other people were filling or re-filling their plates with steaming, sweet smelling foods.

The apron-wearing hotel mistress turned to them, stifling a cough as she did so. "Yeah, welcome to our Holiday Inn." She coughed again. "Sorry. Our desk manager quit this morning, so we're a little undermanned. Now, are you checking out today?"

"Yes." Malik answered.

"All right, hand me your keys and then enjoy your breakfast." Rishid dropped the plastic keycard into her outstretched hand. She tilted her head and chuckled after studying the room number. "Honeymoon suite, eh?" Still laughing, she walked back to the kitchen.

Malik spent twenty minutes at the breakfast bar loading up on pancakes, hash browns, and dozens of peeled fruits. Rishid had saved him a seat, one of the only free spots left, and had nearly finished his meal by the time Malik sat down.


	5. Chapter Five

Author's Notes: Filler chapter! Things get...hrm, "bigger" from here on out.

  
  


ChApTeR FiVe

  
  


Colin Persa had been a twenty-six year old medical student when he'd died. He had moved to England to begin his schooling at the age of nineteen, leaving behind a small, prominent but tight knit family in Spain; his mother, father, brother, and a dog.

Colin had been good looking, if somewhat boastful about it. What he'd lacked in athletic ability he had tried to make up for in intelligence. He'd had an average number of friends, rarely did things to make his parents worry, and enjoyed writing about his travels. When Colin's letters to home stopped, his brother had tried to convince their mother that he was only wrapped up in a relationship with some charming young beauty.

Of course, that was done for *her* benefit. Diego was, in fact, even more worried than their mother about the youngest Persa, and he made plans to go to England and check up on his little brother.

Diego had worked for the government before a poisoned cup from a cleverly vengeful criminal had nearly taken his life. He retired at twenty-eight, but would be mute and dead to sensations or tastes for the rest of his life. It hadn't taken away his specialized training.

After arriving in England he was unsettled to learn that Colin had been missing for some time. The trail led Diego all the way to India, where he found his younger sibling was working for a crime syndicate or cult called 'GHOUL'.

On the day when Diego managed to sneak into the lush building where his brother had entered, he was shocked to see Colin kneeling front and center before a bare-chested youth who was still baby-faced enough to be taken for a sixteen year old.

"You failed." The teen hissed. He was holding a golden dagger in his left hand and stroking it idly with his thumb.

Colin whimpered, "I'm sorry, Lord Malik."

"As you should be," was the sneering response. "Plead for your life."

"Please, Master, forgive me!" Colin's voice quavered. "I will never fail you again."

"I'm unconvinced." Malik answered, just before he drove his dagger into the man's stomach. Colin had been screaming in agony before the knife had even moved; Diego had seen a small, brilliant, light shine from the handle of the scepter in the instant Colin started writhing and shrieking in pain.

When Colin was silent, Malik turned to one of the purple-robed figures. "This one has failed. I expect you to succeed." His tone was still commanding, but lacked the harshness that, moments before, Diego would have thought of as natural for the murderer. "When you get the card, we're going to Japan." Malik brought the bloody knife closer to his face and stared at it savagely. "Where we will destroy the Pharaoh."

Diego spent more than four months following Malik, dismissing the importance a card game named 'Duel Monsters' or 'Wizards and Magic' had. He decided-or was convinced-that the Egyptian boy was insane, and that explained the obsession with a nameless pharaoh, not to mention his goal to rule the world. The only thing Diego was never able to understand was what power the golden items had. 

As with many unexplainable dealings, Diego's mind blocked it out.

He met Doctor Raul Newton while in England, and eventually disclosed in a letter the strange, tragic, frightening discoveries of the past few months. Newton replied that he was doing special projects with delusional patients such as Malik, and Diego agreed to find the boy and, somehow, get him to Newton's office in Oregon.

This took watching Malik's defeat, and following him for nearly three weeks after that, waiting for him to be alone. It was Diego who had found him in the stinking alley in California. He who had dragged him to the false mental hospital.

In the present day, outside 'Forest Hills Mental Hospital', the fog had cleared. Diego was crouched over Malik's dizzy, staggered footprints. He followed them to the road, quietly crossed over and searched the other side for more tracks.

When he found Rishid's heavier prints, he took out a small green notebook and quickly jotted a few notes down. Once this was done, he followed the tracks all the way to a bus stop before taking out his notebook again. This time he sat down on the hard metal bench and turned to a fresh page of paper. In delicate, spidery script he wrote:

  
  


"Newton, Ishtar has escaped with the aid of an unidentified person, whom I would think was just a hapless bystander offering a good deed to a boy lost in the woods, if this were anyone but Ishtar. It is more likely that it was one of his followers. The tracks are much too heavy to be his sister, and it isn't likely she would have been able to follow us all the way here. I will go back to my apartment and wait for any leads on his whereabouts."

  
  


Diego rose to his feet and took his letter to Newton, who read it over twice before speaking. "Very well, but you'd better hurry. How soon before you'll have an idea of where he went?"

Diego wrote, "Not long. I think he will go back to his sister. If I find her, I'll wait for him to come."

Newton looked surprised when he'd read this, as if family unity being used as a trap had never occurred to him. Then again, it probably hadn't; Newton viewed families as sacred and therefore untouchable.

The bounty hunter wrote a final message. "Ishtar will be more bendable if I have his medication with me."

Newton nodded, fingering the small bottle of pills in his pocket. "I'll put them in your supplies once you know where you're going."

  
  


*~*~*

At the age of 10, after the murder of his father, Malik had become a formidable person. By 16 he had a wiry, well defined frame, and a confident swagger to his gait, but it was his freezing violet eyes that usually made people think twice before approaching him. 

It wasn't often the boy who aspired to being Pharaoh could be found gleefully sorting through a bag of gourmet candies. But Bakura had developed a theory on chocolate; he suspected it was an aphrodisiac. Malik already knew it was, but he wasn't planning to let Bakura in on this fact until they'd spent some time 'testing' the hypothesis....

  
  


Malik swallowed heavily, blinking several times to clear his mind of the memory. He found he was seated next to Rishid on a gently rumbling airplane. He also found that most of the other passengers were asleep (the flight had been scheduled for take off at 1 a.m.). He wasn't sure if Rishid was meditating or sleeping, and decided not to disturb him.

He swallowed, grimacing at the painful, dry feeling in his mouth and throat and waved his hand at a passing stewardess to catch her attention. When she walked over, he asked quietly, "Could I get a drink?"

"Certainly, what would you like?"

"A glass of white wine."

Her faux-pleasant smile faded. "Do you have your I.D.?"

"No," he growled, becoming irritable with this.

"We aren't allowed to sell alcoholic beverages to minors, sir." Her voice dropped a bit further. "And I don't think your father would be very pleased if he woke up to find you'd been given wine."

Malik glanced at Rishid, indignant. "He's not my father!" She blinked in surprise. "He's my brother, and he's seen me drink until I passed out. I'm asking for a small, Ra-forsaken glass of wine, which won't kill me, but it *might* help me sleep."

A large, bronzed hand clasped Malik's shoulder, allowing the startled woman to make a hasty retreat.

"Allow me to order for you, Lord Malik." Rishid had always been able to slow Malik's anger, though most of the time it was inadvertent. After Yami Malik had come into power, and banished Malik to the far recesses of his own mind, that calming effect had been nullified.

Malik finally responded to Rishid's words with a slight nod and tiny smile, which he hoped looked grateful. "They'll ask you for I.D. I mean, maybe they'd bend the rule if we said we weren't Americans, but we don't really have any way of proving it." Neither of the Egyptians had ever been given a reason to have identification of any sort. The Millennium Rod had taken care of any technicalities (such as what Malik had just been faced with), and Isis had handled everything else after the Items were given to Yami Yugi.

Rishid thought a moment. "I will go directly to the drinks."

Malik was about to agree, but considered where he would throw someone if *he* found a strange man rummaging around in *his* plane. "No. Isis can buy me one when we land, if I still want one."

The plane landed an hour later than expected, due to a sudden heavy hail storm. The tired, frustrated passengers filed out and headed for the pay phones. The airport was hushed and businesslike, very much like a hospital in the middle of an early shift. Malik cringed and tried to think of an analogy that didn't include anything medical.

Before he could, he and Rishid were greeted by Isis. She was the only person still waiting for the long-delayed flight. Malik froze for only two seconds when he recognized her, and then slowly (he couldn't seem to make his legs move any faster than they were) he went to her and put his arms around her thin shoulders.

"Malik..." she whimpered, holding her brother tightly.

"I'm sorry." Malik whispered.

"Come. The taxi is waiting outside." She pulled away and smiled at Rishid, her eyes just noticeably wet. "I don't suppose you have any baggage we need to pick up first?"

"No." Malik answered her slowly, before turning curious lavender eyes on Rishid, who shook his head. "No, we have everything."

It was drizzling outside, the storm having passed just twenty minutes ago. The cab was parked right outside the airport's glass doors, in between two other vehicles. Isis led the way, not even hesitating when Malik's footsteps faltered when he saw Yugi standing with the driver, rolling dice and talking. Malik began to turn around and head back inside, but Isis had a firm hold on his arm.

Yugi smiled. "Hi, Isis. Did everything go alright?"

"Yes. The plane was late due to the poor weather, but my brothers are fine." Malik turned again, but this time it was to face his sister. Her dark blue eyes were filled with stern reassurance, which he took to mean she wouldn't tolerate him running away from the Pharaoh or his light half.

"Hello, Yugi Mutou..." he said quietly, to appease the firm presence at his side. "It is a surprise to see you again so soon."

Yugi was staring at him. It took a moment for realization to dawn that this was probably because of how terrible he looked right now. 

Licking his lower lip, Malik said a little bit louder, "It's been a while." It was more uncomfortable under those large, shocked eyes than sitting under the "interrogation lamp" in a police station.

"Y-yeah, it has. But I'm glad to see you're okay. Isis was really worried." Malik wondered if the claim that Yugi was glad to see him was true. One look at the small boy's cherubic features washed away any doubt of it.

"I'm glad to see you as well." Malik murmured, climbing into the car after Isis.

Yugi settled down next to him, against the door. "So where were you?"

"I was in America." He glanced at Isis and added, "In Oregon."

The elder of the siblings tilted her head. "What were you doing, brother?"

Malik watched one of his nervously trembling hands. Eventually he shook his head and answered, "I stayed in a hospital." He didn't feel like going into detail, as he didn't want to worry his sister further.

"You went from California to Oregon to stay in a hospital? Were you hurt?" It was curiosity that led her tone, but behind it was a vein of sarcasm.

Malik scowled and stared ahead, through the windshield. "I got drunk and woke up there, in Oregon. That's all you need to know, my sister."

Isis stubbornly pressed him for more answers, which he just as stubbornly withheld. All the while, Rishid kept his silence, and Yugi watched Malik and Isis argue with slight embarrassment.

Yugi was only too happy to end the bickering. "Here we are!" Isis and Malik looked first at the Game King and then at their hotel. "We'll be in Domino by tomorrow afternoon."

Malik stiffened. "Why are we going to Domino?"

"Because it is the Pharaoh's will. That's all you need to know." Isis retorted. The near-panicked expression on Malik's face softened her, and she gently laid a hand on his arm. "There are certain items of business I must attend to before we can leave."

He tried to force himself to accept this answer, and opened the car door.

  
  


The hotel room was small, with four mattresses spread out across the floor. A TV sat against the far wall with a sign "Ask front desk for billing before use". Isis sighed tiredly and walked over to turn on the heater.

It took a while for Malik to realize that Yugi was staring at him. When the small Item Holder realized what he was doing (and that the tall Egyptian had noticed) he blushed and stammered, "Are you alright, Malik?"

The seventeen year old nodded. "Yes. Thank you." Still a bit embarrassed, he added, "Why?"

"You look..." Yugi fumbled. "You look different."

Malik took note of the trembling in his own legs and fingers. Attempting to sound amused, lest Yugi think he was insulted, he replied, "By that you mean it isn't a good thing."

Blushing even more nervously, Yugi shook his head. Malik looked at his own wrist, studying the pale blue veins which ran, ghostlike, beneath his honey-colored skin. "I guess I am different. I haven't had much to eat besides pills and water and my soul has lost its darkness, but..." The tips of Malik's ears reddened, and he dropped his arm to look down at Yugi.

The younger teen met his gaze, expression friendly. "Well, Tristan and Joey and Anzu will feed you. You'll look like yourself again in no time."

Malik didn't really hear him. His mind turned over hundreds of ideas and thoughts and concerns that had been plaguing him since Yugi had welcomed him outside the airport. A glance around the room affirmed that Isis had gone into another room to change. "Why are you here, Yugi? Is it because of my sister?"

"Part of it is." He smiled. "We do owe her a lot, you know. But I saw you defeat your own yami." Yugi's expression sobered and a small hand trailed up to gently cup the front of the Millennium Puzzle. "I don't know everything behind that. But it proved to me that you've changed. On your own. And I don't think anyone deserves to suffer alone, after they've worked hard to become a better person."

Warm air slowly filled the room from the space heater under the window. Malik studied it, more for a distraction than anything else. "I'm not a better person. I'm the same person I've always been."

"Then maybe that's a good thing."


	6. Chapter Six

A/N: Yay! I got some reviewers! And guess what? Borath beta'd the very-tricky-Chapter Seven already (thank you so much, Borath *hug*), so all that's left is your reviews. Yes...Review...you know you want to....

  
  


ChApTeR SiX

  
  


There were twenty minutes left before the subway train would arrive. Isis had sat down on a bench with Rishid standing next to her, watching the crowds with no expression while Yugi was off buying a snack.

Malik had started to go after Yugi when a funny, thick feeling formed in the back of hist throat; the muscles constricted and flexed against the phlegm that continually tried to work its way up into his mouth.

Quickly, he made a beeline for the restroom and locked himself into a toilet-paper strewn stall. He coughed and a thick, almost solid substance came up over his tongue and fell to the water in the toilet. He was startled and frightened to find that what he spat up was more blood than mucus.

It wasn't bright red. It was rust-colored, like his shirt had been after his yami killed his father. Like it was dried. The blood was also apparently very heavy, as it sank to the bottom of the toilet bowl, never once losing its shape.

Three mouthfuls of the nauseating stuff later, and his chest hurt from coughing so hard. But at least the pressure around his tonsils was relieved.

"Lord Malik?"

He spat once more to try and get the slick, bitter taste out of his mouth. After flushing the toilet, he walked out to meet Rishid. 

"What is it?" Rishid didn't answer, since he knew Malik had already caught on that he and Isis were worried. 

"I'm sorry. I should have told you where I was going." Malik said this as he scrubbed his hands and arms, and was annoyed to find there was nothing to dry his hands with; even the hot air dryer was hanging halfway off the wall.

When they went back to the bench, Isis was gone, asking people if they'd seen Malik. It didn't take long for her to notice them.

Frowning, Malik looked at his three companions and demanded, "How long was I gone?" He'd meant to show them they were being foolish and smothering for worrying.

"Twenty minutes," Isis answered, just as the train rode up.

Yugi led the way on, with little resistance from the other passengers due to Rishid's intimidating presence. They found a few spots towards the front of the train, well away from the exit.

"Where will we be staying?" Malik murmured.

Isis turned to him. "In a hotel, brother. Why?"

"No reason." He was relieved to hear her answer. He didn't savor the idea of being around his former victims, and at least he could stay in the hotel room and let his mind dissolve into endless hours of watching cable TV. Even if anyone found out he was in Domino, and then abandoned common sense and decided to visit him, he wouldn't have to open the door.

Yugi had overheard; shaking his head, he protested, "If you're going to be here a whole month, it would be cheaper to spend at least a few days with my grandpa and me."

Isis shook her head firmly. "Thank you, but we will be here at least two months, and I didn't come unprepared."

"Neither did I," Malik said. "I have money."

Yugi's gaze drifted to the floor. "Well, ok. But just remember, if anyone in the hotel turns up dead...." Malik swallowed, anger and shame burning his face. 

Yugi noticed and turned brick red. "No, no! I mean that it isn't as safe there as my house is."

Though relieved that Yugi wasn't implying-or pointing out--that he was a murderer, the attention was almost as embarrassing. "Don't apologize...it's alright. We shouldn't get much trouble. If we do, I always have Rishid."

The small teen smiled hesitantly at Rishid, remembering the abilities the tall, silent Egyptian had. "I almost forgot about him," Yugi admitted softly.

Isis glanced at her surrogate brother, who didn't seem to be taking much notice of their conversation. She smiled faintly at Yugi and offered, "He's good at going unnoticed."

"He's sitting right next to me," Malik muttered, then touched Rishid's elbow to get his attention. "You know that if you don't want to be talked about as if you weren't here, you could just say so."

The train lurched to a halt, and Rishid turned to study the passengers trading places with those out on the platforms and walkways. No one spoke for the rest of the ride.

When they arrived at the hotel it was late, the rain had stopped, but Yugi was half-asleep. Isis thanked him, took her luggage, and led her brothers up to their rooms. After a brief debate, Malik convinced Isis to take her own room and not to feel bad that he and Rishid would be sharing. They had two beds, after all.

The three of them fell asleep after lying awake for another half hour listening to the others breathe.

***

Malik woke around noon. Rishid was gone, his bed neatly made with a note on the pillow explaining that Isis had gone to work and needed Rishid to carry things for her. The key to the hotel room was on the table, he could reach Isis at such and such phone number, money for breakfast or entertainment was on the television.

Malik swallowed hard, his eyes burning with frightened tears as he stared at the carefully locked metal door. To reassure himself, he opened, shut, locked, and opened it several times. When the irrational association of this comfortable room to his cell in the hospital was sorted out, he laughed and locked it again. Certainly no one could get in unless he let them.

Finally, just because he could, he went to take a shower. After scrubbing with the sample sized, foul-smelling soaps, he decided to go out. The Pharaoh and Ryou were in school, so there was no real danger of running into them.

Malik had hardly walked an entire block when black spots began floating in his vision. He placed his hand on the rough, warm bricks of a beauty supply shop and waited to catch his breath.

"...So you mean this color is different than your old one?" An incredulous, all too familiar voice exclaimed from the shop's exit. Raising his eyes, he found...Joey. Being smacked by Mai Kujaku with a bag of cosmetics.

Malik's hand clenched, dragging his fingernails across the bricks. 'Nowhere to go, nowhere to go...' the thought chanted, over and over.

"Hey, you okay-" Joey's concerned voice trailed off when he realized who the pitiful form in front of him was. "Ishtar. You're a wreck."

Malik's mouth stuck on any sort of retort, so he just murmured a "Thanks" and flinched at how weak it sounded. His vision had cleared enough that he stopped leaning on the wall.

Mai just stared at him cooly, unwilling to react outwardly to the shock of seeing the Egyptian youth again. Her voice was calm, chilling almost, when she said, "Why the hell are you back here?"

Malik's eyes moved frantically from one to the other until he felt dizzy.

"Well?" Joey demanded, advancing on him.

"My sister brought me. She's working here."

Mai shrugged, put her lipstick in her bag and turned. "Leave him alone, Joseph. Let's go." When there was no reply, she tossed a contemptuous glare at Malik. "Look at him. It's not worth the time."

Joey snorted and went back to her. "No kidding." They quickly went back to their banter.

Malik darted into the store; the string of brass bells slapped so hard against the glass door he was worried it would break.

A dainty, trendy girl looked up at him and smiled. "Can I help you?"

"Uhm..." He looked around. The whole room stank of perming solution and nail polish. "I need eye liner and shampoo." He wouldn't be able to get kohl here; might as well settle for something else.

"Our make-up is over on that wall, and hair products are in that aisle. If you need anything, just ask."

Malik touched the money stuffed in his pocket idly as he walked. The assortment of colors sparked his imagination-something Malik had feared his yami had taken forever. He found an almost kohl-colored pencil and took it, but his eyes lingered on the metallic colors above it. After a second, he picked up a pale blue pencil and turned to the shampoo aisle.

He spent almost two hours comparing the differences between Biolage and Paul Mitchell, not because he was the least bit interested, but the monotony was soothing and it made him forget about his encounter with Mai and Joey.

The chemical smell had faded, or else he was getting used to it. By now he was the only customer, and the cashier seemed happy to ignore him and go about restocking the shelves. Isis or Rishid, if they were worried, might realize he'd be here and come to get him, but if not....

A smile tugged at his mouth and he had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. No one knew where exactly to find him, and he didn't want anyone to. He thought of laughing or hiding, or just living here forever. It could be possible. When other customers came in, he could just duck into the back room.

"Hey, are you finding everything ok?" Blinking at the cashier, Malik nodded. The absurd fantasy vanished.

Carelessly he gathered up shampoo and conditioner and carried his selections to the checkout counter. It had been ridiculous, anyway. He had no reason at all to hide from those close to him. Not having a reason, however, didn't mean that he didn't want to hide here.

With what money he had left, he set off to find food. A large café, still full of the rich smell of coffee from a busy breakfast shift, screamed for his attention.

He took a seat, ate a "Vegetarian Special" sandwich, and then stared across the street as he drank water and waited for his check. There was something eerily familiar about the place across the street. It sold hamburgers, which explained why he hadn't gone there.

He paid for his half-eaten lunch and walked out, still staring at the gaudy hamburger restaurant. Then it came to him: Anzu. Anzu worked there.

"Malik!" It was easy to recognize Yugi's voice, be he dreaded turning because he suspected the other teen wasn't alone.

He was grateful to find his suspicion was wrong. "Hello, Yugi. Out for a walk?"

"I'm going to see Anzu at work. I thought you would have gone with Isis."

Malik shook his head. "I don't find the museum all that interesting. Besides, she wouldn't want me underfoot."

"Well, you're welcome to come with me, if you want." Yugi motioned to the restaurant entrance.

"Oh. No, that's ok." Malik felt as if his feet had sunk into the pavement. The Pharaoh's vessel was kind, forgiving.... He desperately craved being around those qualities. Yugi's apparent forgiveness of all that Malik had done to him over the past year was an offering of hope, of love, to one who had been swallowed up by hatred. It was an answer to prayers Malik hadn't even known he'd made.

Anzu, however, had no reason to forget. He hadn't offered allegiance to her.

As if to solidify the decision Malik was struggling to make, the door slid open and then shut. A powerful scent of char-broiled hamburger meat washed over Yugi and Malik, tantalizing one and nauseating the other.

With an expression of finality, Malik shook his head. "I just had lunch." Yugi's large eyes didn't falter. Malik wasn't sure if the smaller boy was expecting an explanation, or just worried.

Malik was keenly aware of his own hollow cheeks, the shadows under glossy eyes, the way his clothes hung off of him no matter how tightly he cinched his belt. Anxiety and shame quickened his heart painfully, forcing him to gasp in response.

Yugi called his name; reflexively, Malik tried to shake off his concern. His thoughts swam with the movement; dark spots covered his vision again, like the earth refilling a grave, and he fell heavily against the side of the Burger Palooza. Though unconsciousness never came, his sight faded from hazy twilight to solid black, then back again.

He felt himself being lifted by two sets of arms. A door opened, warmth and the sizzling of hamburgers spilled out and swallowed him up as he was carried inside. There were gasps and curious murmurs; a baby began to shriek, but its mother ignored it.

Anzu's voice: "Bring him over here, guys. Into the break room."

"Should we call an ambulance?" That was Yugi.

"No!" Malik struggled against the blackness, against the men holding him, but most of all against being put back in a hospital. Twilighted vision; Malik tried to force himself to see clearly, and the room throbbed.

"No," he said again, sitting up despite the startled protests and hovering hands. Yugi's face slowly gained color, and gradually the dim tunnel vision broadened out. "I'm not hurt."

"What are you, then?" Anzu asked drily, before turning to empty out the break room.

"Are you sure? You should really go see a doctor." A man with graying red hair spoke, crouched in front of the sofa Malik was laid on. He was actively ignoring Anzu's claims that there was nothing to see.

Rancor became a taste in Malik's mouth. "I have," he growled. "I just got here from the hospital." He swung his feet over the side of the cushions and braced himself to stand. Yugi's hands pushed him back. Unwilling to physically resist, Malik cried, "I'll be fine. I just spent too much time in the sun."

The crowd was reluctant to give up on the excitement. They grumbled and gathered at the door until Anzu picked up the phone to make good on her threat of sending for police.

"Thanks." Malik murmured when he, Yugi, and Anzu were alone in the room.

The brunette tilted her head at him. "Yeah. I'm sure you'd do the same for us." Malik frowned, unable to read if she were being sarcastic or not.

"Do you feel up to a glass of water?" She continued, before he could puzzle out the meaning behind her words. "If you have heatstroke, you should get some fluids in you." But yet again, before he could answer she spoke. "Don't be macho. I'm not going to give you a choice, Nam-uh. Malik." Then she was gone.

Yugi smiled. "She's like that. It's best not to argue with her."

Malik nodded, toying with a bit of loose thread on the cushion. Yugi sat down next to him. "What happened to your motorcycle?"

"I had to leave it here. It's a lot more expensive to travel legally than I thought it would be. We couldn't afford to take it with us." He looked down at Yugi. "Why? Are you wanting to go for a ride?"

Yugi just smiled.

***

Pea gravel crunched under Malik's and Yugi's feet. Armored Storage facility was the smallest group of storage sheds in or around domino; possibly even all of Japan. They hadn't bothered with asphalt for their driveway, either.

Malik had confided on the bus ride over that he had only paid ten dollars every eight weeks to keep his bike here, and had doubts that it was still safe. Sixty dollars a year didn't buy much insurance. But aside from a layer of dust, the motorcycle was exactly as it had been left.

Malik's eyes lit with excitement when the tin door was pushed open, allowing afternoon sunlight to fall on his beloved machine.

Yugi helped him wipe it clean and buff it with lambskin cloths, unable to hide his grin at Malik's childlike eagerness. The tall blond would murmur appreciatively in that Ishtar-blend of Arabic and Egyptian, as if Yugi weren't there, or perhaps he just didn't know he was doing it.

Not perturbed at being left out of the "conversation", Yugi asked, "Is it clean yet?"

Malik rubbed one final dust spot out of it and nodded, smiling as if he'd found a lost friend. "Do you want to come with? I could drop you off at your home." His voice was just barely above a whisper, more accented than Yugi had ever heard it, and gentle as kidskin gloves on crystal.

"I'd love to go with," Yugi answered, trying to keep his voice soft and reverent as Malik's. Everyone had their eccentricities; if his could be cards, then certainly Malik could have an affinity for motorbikes.

  
  


There was never such a feeling of peace for Malik as when there was wind brushing through his hair, the soft movements of a powerful machine underneath him, the road and gravel falling away to dust and sunlight.

He was fighting the grin threatening to appear on his face so hard he actually shivered. When he urged the bike to go faster, Yugi tightened his already tense hold around Malik's waist, and the Egyptian reluctantly slowed back to the speed limit.

"Your house is a few blocks from here?" He asked over his shoulder.

Yugi nodded, realized Malik probably couldn't see him nodding, and hollered, "Yes! It's just off of Main Street!"

Malik slowed gradually as they arrived, enjoying how responsive his bike was to his every whim. "We're here," he said above the rumble of the engine.

Yugi climbed off and gave Malik back his helmet. "Thank you, Malik. I'll see you later."

Malik nodded, wondering if going for that ride with Yugi counted as a gesture of friendship. It was just as likely Yugi would only take it as a favor; his cheerful face hadn't given him any hints either way.

But enough of that. Socializing took a back seat for now. He had a motorcycle to ride.


	7. Chapter Seven

Author's Notes: Everyone still reading? And many thanks to Borath, who beta'd this chapter ^^  
  
ChApTeR SeVeN  
  
Malik finally managed to park near the entrance of Domino City Mall, after driving through the cramped parking lot searching for a spot that was at least within sight of the building. Finally, a kind old woman gave him his space after almost side-swiping him.  
  
Inside, people milled around and crowded together in the popular stores, like ants swarming sugar cubes. Malik browsed the clothing stores, passed the food court, wandered through bath shops.  
  
He had come, partly, to look for a new shirt. Again, the mindless waltz of window shopping soothed him. Smirking, he reflected that this was supposedly the mode of therapy most women chose to duel their "moods" with. He'd never found this to be true in his family. Isis threw herself into her work; who knew what their mother had done.  
  
The empty, frightened hollows in his mind began to loosen the hold on his thoughts, fogging over with pleasant nothingness. Presently he stood in front of one display case, studying a black cotton shirt; it had long sleeves, something Malik had never worn, though now he shivered from a constant chill.  
  
A large teen, probably an athlete of some kind, shoved past him. Malik sprawled but managed to catch himself before he fell. The group of teens ignored him, the boy not even looking back.  
  
"Hey!" Malik snapped, earning an off-the-shoulder, bored expression. Glaring, he shoved the slowly meandering jock, hard.  
  
Now all of the group stopped. The jock spun around, grabbed Malik roughly by the collar of his shirt. The blond struggled, realizing only then that what little strength he'd had was exhausted. In the best of health he would have stood a chance...not now.  
  
Malik lashed out with his right knee, but in the same instant the other boy threw him away. Malik's leg connected with the other's groin, not as solidly as he'd intended, but enough that it gave him a few seconds to get away. Not that it was enough. Malik landed on the linoleum floor, his back hitting down with a loud 'snap'; he was breathless.  
  
"Are you okay?" The group was asking, not of Malik but of their friend, who was doubled over, face red and eyes clamped shut.  
  
Another boy walked over, watching Malik sit up. He knelt on Malik's left thigh, then cut off any cry of pain by squeezing the tanned throat. Encouraged, another of the jock's friends came over to help.  
  
"Yeah! Kill him, Randy!" The others crowed.  
  
Malik clawed at his attacker's face, eventually hooking two fingers in the moist, spongy corners of Randy's eyes.  
  
Randy staggered back, clapping his hands over his eyes. Blood and feeling rushed back through Malik's leg.  
  
The next boy came from the side, his fist cracking across Malik's jaw. The soft bouncing sound of rubber soles on linoleum tiles from somewhere just behind him distracted the Egyptian, but not the attackers, who were filling in around their victim. But before anything else could happen, the nearest boy was skidding across the floor.  
  
One more tried to attack Malik's protector. His arm was twisted at a sickening angle when he managed to escape.  
  
Malik was hauled to his feet, and found his face buried momentarily in a mess of white hair that smelled of strawberries and graveyards.  
  
"Ra. Lost weight, did you?" A guttural voice exclaimed, obviously surprised at how easily Malik could be lifted.  
  
"B-Bakura, why-"  
  
"Shut up. Get to an exit before the guards get us. Do you have your motorcycle?" The thief wove expertly in and out of the crowd, never loosening a painful grip on Malik's arm.  
  
Once they were outside, Malik led the way to the bike. He glanced at Bakura, not inviting him to come but not protesting when the spirit climbed on behind him.  
  
"Where do you want me to take you?" Malik asked flatly, jamming the key into the ignition.  
  
"Will you just drive? Yap later, escape now."  
  
After speeding down eight blocks, Bakura motioned left, to a fairly new apartment complex that Malik didn't recognize. Bakura instructed him to park and sauntered up the nearest flight of stairs.  
  
Deftly, Bakura tugged a key from his pocket and, once the door was open, forced Malik inside.  
  
Not really sure why he was here-and, honestly, frightened that Bakura was simply out for revenge-Malik asked shakily, "You live here?"  
  
Dark brown eyes looked him over, chilling as early winter frost. "My host's father didn't appreciate all the troublesome 'incidents' from the past two years. Told us to get out, and maybe come back someday."  
  
Feeling a little guilty (he had been part of those 'incidents'), Malik tried to find a suitable way to apologize. Bakura just made a derisive sound that Malik had become well acquainted with, as he had received it often. It meant that the topic was going to be a difficult one to broach.  
  
Bakura sat on a small whicker chair, seeming to "fall out" of Ryou; it took a moment for Malik to realize the two had separated. He wondered if it appeared the same for Yami and Yugi; he'd never really been able to 'split' from his own yami.  
  
"Do you want something to drink?" Ryou asked, making up for his yami's rudeness. Malik nodded once, asking for water.  
  
The pale teen disappeared around the corner, leaving Malik to study the small room. Posters he recognized from Ryou's old room were now displayed on each wall. Pictures of his friends were taped around to fill in the spaces between the posters. Empty beer bottles, clearly Bakura's influence, were scattered at random across the floor.  
  
Ryou came out with a cold, clear glass of ice water. "What happened, Malik?"  
  
Frustration welled up at the thought-the memory-of being helpless at the hands of people he ordinarily wouldn't have batted an eye at. "I don't know. They pushed me, and I pushed back, but.... I don't know...why I couldn't fight." His throat constricted as if he were being strangled again. "I tried..." his hand trembled, water spilling over the sides onto his hand, shirt and pants.  
  
Quickly, Ryou turned. "Sit down, I'll go grab a towel." He trotted back to the kitchen.  
  
When Malik had dried as much as he could, Ryou said quietly, "I meant about that. What's happened to you?"  
  
Malik's hand stopped trying to mop off his shirt. "What?" A small part of him hoped Ryou was going to say something to offer proof that his changes weren't that noticeable.  
  
Ryou licked the corner of his upper lip, a nervous habit Malik recognized. Quietly, he said, "You're so thin."  
  
Bakura had hardly moved throughout this. His expression had dimmed at seeing Malik's quivering display, but now a spark of interest, cold and distant, lit in his eyes.  
  
The tomb robber knew that Malik wasn't one to conceal his emotions (his motives, yes, but aside from that he was open as a book.) Bakura doubted he'd try to lie to Ryou now.but there was a lot that was different about the slender teen now.  
  
"I know. I just haven't been hungry."  
  
There was a pause. "Is it because Isis's exhibit hasn't been in any museums?"  
  
"No, that's not it." He'd had no idea his sister's exhibit hadn't been doing well. "How did you-?"  
  
"Yugi keeps a closer eye on your family than he'd like you to know." Ryou answered casually.  
  
"It looks like you do, too."  
  
Bakura noted the twinge of hostility in Malik's tone; Ryou, apparently, hadn't. Bakura's eyes, narrower and harsher than Ryou's, gazed at him. "Not anymore." The thief stood and went into the kitchen, reappearing with a bottle of beer.  
  
Malik wasn't sure if he meant that he had no interest in the Ishtars because they'd given up their Items, or if he meant the deal-that Bakura would stop Yami Malik from killing Rishid in exchange for the Rod-had been the only point of interest as far as their welfare went. Both were likely.  
  
He sipped the cold water, since his mouth felt so uncomfortably dry. "What were you doing at the mall?"  
  
Bakura sat down on the arm of the sofa, then leaned forward and set his bottle on the small coffee table. "I was shopping. But if you mean, 'Why did I help you', then it's because I wondered why you were allowing yourself to be beaten by a bunch of kids. You had ambitions, damn big ones, and rugrats shouldn't be able to walk all over you."  
  
Malik frowned. "I told you. I couldn't fight back. I can't."  
  
"Yeah. I figured you weren't just playing with them when I ended up the only one fighting."  
  
"Are you complaining? Did you want my help?"  
  
Bakura glowered at him. "It blew off steam."  
  
"You've got a lot to 'blow off'," Malik mused, not really thinking of all the connotations that held.  
  
Bakura grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him against the cushions, straddling Malik's stomach. Gasping, Malik writhed, trying to get his arms free.  
  
Ryou's eyes widened and he took a step towards his yami, but jerked to a halt when Bakura noticed and glared warningly at him.  
  
Bakura's expression went from anger, to surprise, to amusement when they both realized how easily Malik had been trapped.  
  
"Are you going to beg?" Bakura asked coldly the instant Malik's mouth opened to protest.  
  
"Let me go!" Malik fought any note of pleading; he struggled more fiercely, feeling his shoulders ache. "Get off!"  
  
Bakura studied the nearly helpless teen beneath him, remembering a time when Malik had out muscled him. Of course, it had been a different context then, and Bakura hadn't worried for an instant over the idea he might not have been able to protect himself.  
  
Anger and shock and humiliation stewed in Malik's mind, stung his eyes with tears. He would not cry in front of, or because of, Bakura. The tomb robber saw this, all of it, and frowned. He squeezed the shoulders in his fists tighter, until Malik cried out.  
  
Sun bronzed hands pushed futilely at Bakura's arms.  
  
"Malik, you bastard, listen to me!" Slowly, enraged and achingly desperate eyes met the spirit's face. Bakura swallowed hard, thrown off guard in spite of himself. "I'm not going to hurt you. If I'd wanted to, I would have already."  
  
"Then let me go!"  
  
"Make me." Bakura leaned a little closer. "Don't you even remember how to fight?"  
  
"Is that all you want?" Malik gasped. "To fight?" Bakura sighed and sat back, as if Malik had missed the point of it all.  
  
Relief shoved off Malik's earlier feelings of panic and anger. Softly, he said, "I remember how. I just...can't."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I'm too tired." Indeed, he'd given up even the effort of sitting up.  
  
Bakura took this answer with an expression of distaste. "Why?" A note of frustration had crept into Bakura's voice, though only Ryou had noticed.  
  
Malik shook his head and pushed his fingers through his silky blond hair. "Who knows?" He glared at nothing, unconsciously giving away the fact that he knew.  
  
Bakura watched the play of bewildering emotion on his companion's face. "I always thought you enjoyed a challenging brawl."  
  
A muscle in Malik's tightly clamped jaw twitched. "Thank you for your help, Bakura. Please get off of me." Bakura rose just a few millimeters, allowing Malik to squirm his way off the couch.  
  
When he stood, he couldn't bring himself to see the burning concern (or was it mere curiosity?) on Ryou's and Bakura's faces.  
  
"Are you sure you can drive?" Ryou finally asked, when Malik was at the door.  
  
"Yes." His voice sounded harsh and breathless. Unwilling to face any argument, he tugged open the door and quickly stepped outside.  
  
As soon as he had the door shut tight behind him, he shivered while hot, angry tears built up not just behind his closed eyelids but seemingly as a flood against his mind. And it hurt.  
  
When he heard voices from the other side of the door he forced his way down the stairs.  
  
*~*~*  
  
Ryou stared at the door for a moment, trying to convince himself that boy out there really was Malik. "I think you hurt him." He hardly realized he'd spoken until the words were out and dangling tensely for the yami to pounce on.  
  
"Your point being what?" Bakura growled, opening his beer. Ryou hadn't turned, but he'd heard the hiss of the bottle top being unscrewed. "You want me to go out and hold him while he cries?"  
  
"If you were his friend you would." The hikari slumped into the empty whicker chair.  
  
"If." Bakura scoffed.  
  
"You protected him at the mall," Ryou argued. He shook his head and went on, "Yami, I really don't think he needed you to.make things worse right after you'd helped him."  
  
"As if he doesn't deserve it!"  
  
Ryou didn't offer a retort. Instead he sat for several minutes and listened to his yami swallow mouthful after mouthful of Heinekens. At last he said softly, "Maybe he does."  
  
Bakura grunted at that.  
  
"But do you really want to see him die? Like that, I mean? It doesn't really prove anything. It doesn't fix anything. And I don't want him to.to die. I just don't think that we should leave him like that."  
  
The spirit eyed the door, then looked back at his hikari. "It doesn't matter what you want for him. Tell me how to fix it, Ryou. Or don't, because there isn't anything I can do. I can step in all you want but when all's done it's not going to amount to anything."  
  
Ryou stared at his lap, unwilling to believe.  
  
*~*~*  
  
Malik had barely gone two blocks when the engine dies. And no matter how he tried, it wouldn't start back up again; a quick glance at the gasoline gauge told him the problem, though. The ride with Yugi must have taken up more than he'd thought.  
  
Feeling oddly isolated, he pushed the heavy bike to a gas station and parked it around back. Inside, a young attendant informed him that he had to buy something to use the phone, but took pity (or relented to the fear of wrath) when that bit of news nearly sent Malik into hysterics.  
  
Unfortunately, he couldn't remember the hotel number. The attendant generously offered a tattered phone book and Malik reluctantly looked up and dialed Ryou's number.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Ryou?" Before there could be a response, Malik went on, "My motorcycle ran out of gas. I'm at a gas station, but I don't have any money and I don't know how to get in touch with Isis. Do you know the name of her museum?" He refused to feel embarrassed or upset that he had to ask such a thing. He wouldn't let himself think about how ungrateful he sounded.  
  
"Oh.I knew the one she wanted to have her exhibit hosted at, but I think that one fell through."  
  
Malik stifled a sigh. "Fine. Thanks." He hung up before Ryou could answer. He stormed out without another glance. So he didn't notice that he'd left his keys in the ignition.  
  
*~*~*  
  
Malik was shivering as he walked home. 'Home' had been many places for him that should not have been; a pit under sand, a ship...now a hotel room in a city where he was, rightfully, despised.  
  
Gray-green leaves slapped across his face as he walked underneath an old, unkempt willow tree. Bland white concrete underneath his feet, crumbling as he got into the more populated part of the city. A slate-colored sky overhead was bleached from a heavy sun rather than because of any clouds.  
  
A dull, creeping ache was forming in his head, and each breath he took was a little bit shallower than the last. His body shifted moment to moment from being hot and cold, but he was always shivering. His ears were blocked as well, muffling the sounds of any life around him.  
  
He recognized all of this easily; the sickening blend someone had dubbed 'withdrawals'. It wasn't likely that he'd reach home before his stomach became unsettled, but he didn't want further humiliation of vomiting all over his favorite shirt.  
  
A word other than 'withdrawals' had been on his mind. 'Tolerance'. One pill no longer soothed all of his aches, or numbed him, or even made him see colors more brilliantly. He would feel his skin crawl, as if his mind were trying to slip away, to separate from his weak form. But that was it. There was no rush of steadying coolness anymore, nothing to blind his pain.  
  
As the comfort of the drugs wore off, malice hung in the spaces between himself and every stranger he passed. It caused a fear so indescribable it took his breath away.  
  
He jumped when someone would brush shoulders with him, trembled and whimpered when he was in a crowd. It brought the memory of the hospital.of Dr. Newton and the orderlies, and even a few patients trying to console him and get him to stop "whimpering". As hands tried to close in around him he would jerk away, duck under tables, throw things, scream for Isis..  
  
Even now her name was half-formed in every cry that struggled past his chattering teeth. He would not run; he couldn't. His legs shook too forcefully. Besides which, there was nowhere to hide.  
  
A muffled rumble paused beside him. "Get on and drive," Bakura snapped.  
  
Malik all but ran to him, resisting the urge to curl up against the spirit. "Who taught you to drive?"  
  
"It's not hard," the tomb raider answered gruffly. At Malik's look he amended, "Ryou knows how."  
  
"Drive for me," Malik said, climbing on back. He didn't want to explain and hoped Bakura wouldn't ask.  
  
Wearily he laid his head against the other's back, wondering if he'd be pushed off the bike for the action. But without a word, Bakura sped him home and stayed until a bus came to return him home.  
  
Then Malik went up the stairs, locked the door, found he was alone and doled out two pills. There were twenty-five left after he'd swallowed those two, now that he counted.  
  
After a few minutes, his skin began to tingle; goosebumps rose and fell across his entire body. Heat radiated outward from the pit of his stomach, taking moisture from his mouth and eyes. He stumbled into the corner of a table, jarring Isis's make-up bag. A handheld mirror slid across the table and the glass popped out; the reflective surface poured light onto his face.  
  
Tentative, his fingertips brushed the mirror and found it icy cold. Slowly, he picked up the palm-sized piece of glass and sat down on the bed, rolling it over and over in his hands, loving the cold feel of it against his skin. It was almost like cold, slippery ice. And ice was wet, cold water, something that could slowly drip back into liquid..  
  
Thoughtlessly, he slipped it halfway into his mouth and laid back, as he'd done so many times before with small cubes or slivers taken from the ice machine down the hall. His eyes closed and he wished that it really was ice, although it did the job of wetting his mouth well enough.  
  
When it was no longer cold, his jaw worked against it, trying to chew and break it, though Malik didn't register that he was doing it. Before he realized what was happening, the glass had cracked in two, slicing his lip. He spat the pieces on the floor and looked up as the door unlocked and Isis walked in.  
  
***  
  
"There doesn't appear to be any damage."  
  
"No blood--"  
  
"Small contusions-"  
  
The words swirled and buzzed, fading in and out of coherence. He was surrounded by doctors dressed in green, blue, yellow and pink; they all looked the same to him except for their colors.  
  
It wasn't a dream. He knew that. It was ridiculously funny.this whole thing was. He didn't need to be here; why was he even on this uncomfortable bed? And what sort of uncomfortable bed had wheels, anyway?  
  
A buzzing sound in his ears again, and he couldn't see anymore. He tried to keep listening.  
  
"-chemicals-"  
  
"-The drugs these kids take!" A vividly disgusted tone in the doctor's voice.  
  
Malik shut his eyes, tried to cover his ears. Firm hands tugged his arms back into place, straight at his sides. He realized why when he looked.  
  
They were pushing him under a very large, heavy machine**. It wouldn't.fall on him.? Surely it wouldn't. What would it do to him, then?  
  
His head swam, making the room spin once, and then he slept.  
  
***  
  
When he woke, his head felt strange; thick and cottony, the same feeling he remembered from when he'd caught a cold. He wasn't entirely sure where he was, but there were two small plastic bags hanging off to the side, one holding a clear liquid and the other holding blood.  
  
Malik's eyes followed the little plastic tubes at the bottoms of the sacks and found they were somehow attached to his hand. Well, the clear one was. The red one was in his arm. Both looked uncomfortable, and he didn't want to think about what would happen when they were taken out, though for now he couldn't feel anything.  
  
Best to ignore it.  
  
His sister was seated across the room, Rishid standing beside her. Both were staring at him, but neither of them reacted when he opened his eyes. Isis's eyes were bright from crying.  
  
Strange pictures of someone's esophagus, stomach, and intestines were hanging behind Isis. Malik grimaced when he realized the pictures were of him.  
  
He vaguely remembered being fed a graham cracker; it had left a strange aftertaste in his mouth. As the thought of the doctor's voices faded, he heard the door opening. All three Ishtars looked over to see one of the head doctors walk in. Malik identified him as the one wearing the blue smock.  
  
"Miss Ishtar?" Isis stood. "He should be okay, aside from a cut on his lower lip. I don't think it will even need stitches." The doctor frowned, his expression a mask of concern. Quietly he walked over to Malik's bedside. "How do you feel?"  
  
"I feel okay." He glanced at Isis and added, "I feel well."  
  
"I need to know this, so please answer truthfully. If you need, we can have your sister wait outside. Have you taken any drugs?"  
  
Malik's hand, the one without anything stuck in it, tightened into a fist. "Just what my doctor gave me." Bitterness iced the words; Malik made no attempt to disguise it.  
  
"What medication? Look, I want you to tell your doctor to take you off of it now."  
  
"Ok."  
  
"Miss Ishtar, I'd like to speak with you alone."  
  
She forced her concerns into one tight frown. Tossing a glance at Rishid, who stepped up beside Malik, she went after the doctor.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
He'd taken her into an empty exam room. Lowering his voice, he said, "We found some cuts and bruises that concerned us. Since he's still a minor, and you are his guardian, we would ordinarily have him examined by child services."  
  
Isis grew pale. She could literally feel the blood rushing away from her face. "No, you-you don't understand! You think I hurt my brother-?"  
  
"No," the doctor had his hands up in a placating manner. "Since you are Egyptian citizens, legally we can't intervene. But if he comes in here again, I will have the three of you analyzed by our psychologists, and I'll make note of this to the government of Egypt."  
  
"I understand," Isis answered, her tone stiff. "Am I able to take him home now?"  
  
"Yes." The doctor's eyes were sad, she noted.  
  
He had seen this so many times before, he had probably lost count. He hated the thought, but it was likely that the next time he saw Malik Ishtar, it would be in the morgue.  
  
***  
  
A few days later, Malik lay on one of the hotel beds, staring up at the ceiling, trying to force thought and emotion out of his mind. He wanted to feel nothing, nothing at all. He wanted that blissful numbness from the hospital. But stronger than his will, anger and humiliation slid into his thoughts.  
  
Slowly he rolled over onto his side so he was staring at Rishid's empty bed. A small pile of the man's extra clothes were set at the foot. Desperate for some sort of distraction as the shows on the television had failed, he padded over and dug around in Rishid's pockets.  
  
He didn't find much, except for a fishing knife.  
  
Its handle was steel with brown stripes painted on as a mockery of decoration. The blade was thin and long, and it hooked up at the end. Unsheathed, it was filthy but delicate. When he ran his thumb over the slender edge, it was smooth as polished stones, and about as sharp.  
  
With nothing better to do, he walked out to the hall and stole a scrap of steel wool from one of the housekeeping trolleys. Back in his room, he locked himself in the bathroom, filled the sink, and dipped the knife under the water.  
  
Malik squirted some of his shampoo on the steel wool, wishing he'd had the foresight to grab some Ajax off the trolley, but he was unwilling to go outside again. He began scrubbing the blade, grateful for such a mindless task.  
  
Wet rust flaked off the blade and stuck to the sides of the porcelain sink. The metal handle scratched easily, but Malik quickly decided that it would not be allowed to stay dirty. Besides, he knew how many people had bled onto this knife and caused it to rust.  
  
His fingernails were just long enough to scrape and claw the dried gore off. Several hours passed before he considered the dull blade not to be disgusting any longer. The sink was awful, but Malik decided that could be left to the maids. Then he unlocked the door and walked out, fully intending to keep the knife to himself.  
  
Rishid and Isis were there placing dinner on the table. Both of his siblings gave him a strange look when they saw what he was holding. Isis frowned in obvious disapproval when he told her why he wanted to keep it ("Protection." he'd said) but she turned her attention back to the bag of carrots she was opening.  
  
Rishid asked, quietly so that Isis wouldn't take much notice, "Do you need protecting, Malik?"  
  
His stomach lurched as he thought of the earlier events. "No."  
  
"I'm.." 'not hungry' died at the tip of his tongue as he remembered what Ryou had said about Isis's exhibit. He grabbed a plate.  
  
"I see you have your motorcycle back," Isis said, taking a seat.  
  
Malik gnawed at the end of a celery stalk and hid a grimace when the stringy vegetable stuck between his teeth. "Yugi Motou wanted to go for a ride."  
  
"Ah. Did you have fun?"  
  
"Yes." Silence and tension filled the room. Uneasily, Malik toyed with the edges of his paper plate and finally asked, "Where is your exhibit being hosted?"  
  
His sister's expression became stony. "I haven't had an offer."  
  
No one ate or spoke until Malik murmured, "What are we going to do?"  
  
Isis hesitated, opened her mouth to answer, and hesitated again. Malik was old enough, she reasoned, and experienced enough to hear the truth. He didn't need reassuring lies. Not from someone he ought to trust with honesty.  
  
She wanted to hold him close like a child, but couldn't guess if that would insult him. The stillness dragged on.  
  
"I don't know." She finally admitted.  
  
Malik wasn't sure how long he'd been expecting to hear that, but those words coming from Isis sent his mind scrambling for an answer. "I could enter a competition," was the first thing that came to mind.  
  
"No!" Malik, and even Isis, flinched at the harshness in her voice. She softened her tone immediately. "Brother, you cannot go up against the Pharaoh."  
  
How could he have overlooked the fact that Yugi would enter any competition he found here? Sullenly he tried again. "I could get a job."  
  
"You could. If we lived here long enough."  
  
Malik sighed impatiently and shook his head. He was trying to fix this, but everything Isis said pointed out the flaws in his plans. And everything she said was true. He was unwilling to follow through with his next offer, but spitefully he said it anyway, desperate to find at least one thing that Isis wouldn't be able to punch a hole in. "I could sell my motorcycle."  
  
"I don't want you to do that, brother." She didn't look at him, didn't voice the thought that it was inevitable.  
  
A/N: **Well, as Borath pointed out, that was a pretty vague description. I don't remember what the big machine was. . Might've been an X-ray, but had to get X-rays on my leg a few months after Big Machine incident and the two machines looked different, so I don't think it was. Then again, I might've seen it as bigger than it was. Being on a stretcher makes things seem really huge. 


	8. Chapter Eight

LEITHO: Kazuke Takahashi, ui nin, ceredir uin edain ar uain nedh sa pent.

A/N: Ooh, Sindarin! Yeah, uhm, anyway...that's just mah disclaimer from now on. Typing that thing gets tedious; might as well do it in Elvish! Anyway, this chapter isn't beta'd, because...I got impatient (er, swamped) while working on other fics. So, until it IS beta'd and fixed, if you'd politely unfocus your eyes when you stumble across mistakes, I'd be very happy ^^

Responses:

LLYXIUS: LOL! Double meanings in everything I say ~.^ I mean, taking THAT meaning to "fell out", all of a sudden that whole scene is a lot more awkward for Malik, isn't it? D

SAILORSUN8: Yep, updates! Far between, though , The thing about Malik having such a rough time is mainly his perspective, though. He's focusing on how bad things are, so I'm not going into the good things that are happening to him...You'll see what I mean (I hope!) By the end of the fic.

BAKANEKO-CHAN: Yes, at this point, Malik gets a happy ending ^^ It started without an ending, and then it got a depressing ending, so it could change. Probably not. Anyway, here's six pages of some happiness to tide you over ^^

YESIM: *snicker* Just don't kill anyone REAL who's named Randy, k?

KYRENE: Lots more Bakura coming up in next chapter, and the chapter after that, and...you get it. I'm glad you liked the glass scene, too; I guess that means it wasn't brain-numbingly confusing?

BORATH: *tackle-hug* Sorry, just had to get that out of my system. I mean, you're my real-life Bakura! RLB. ^^ Love ya, dear; and I'm glad that you posted the second review. It has helped. 

LOO-BAGEL: *likes your penname* You're a fan? *flattered* Thanks! *blush* LoL, your review of Music made me post this so much earlier than planned, y'know.

YAMI KRISSY: Yesyes, things will turn out okay. Very, very slowly, though. Hopefully it's enjoyable in the meantime!

CHROMEFOX: *still giddy from your review* I'm glad that you love Boraths' stories so much; she kicks ass, ne? And I'm glad that you reviewed! Very flattering ^^ 

WOODELF193: Not much Rishid-Isis-Malik stuff in this chapter, but I hope you like it all the same.

SHEESHASAN: Another review that helped me get this out before my other fics (one of which technically even has a due date .) was yours. This is a fic that will get finished, I promise that.

DJ SILENCE YUY: *presents Chapter Eight* ^.^

  
  


ChApTeR EiGhT

The Game Shop smelled like ink and paper, card board and candy. On Sundays, when small dueling matches were held, it also held the underlying feeling of creativity at work, of strategy being developed.

However, today was Wednesday, and today it was quiet and empty.

Ryou followed Yugi in, studying the back room which led to the Mutou home. He'd only been to Yugi's house once or twice before, and it seemed different each time. For instance, today they were greeted with the homey scents of chicken and chocolate cake, a combination that utterly confused Ryou's stomach.

Yugi toed off his shoes and continued on to the kitchen, where his mother was lacquering the cake with pale icing.

Yugi smiled, moving to stand next to her. "It smells great!" He didn't need to say more to make it clear he was begging for a taste.

She eyed him, then shook her head. "After dinner. Go entertain your guest."

Yugi tossed an 'I tried' look to Ryou. "Do you want something to drink?" He asked the other teen, then to his mother added, "He's helping me study for an exam."

"Oh, you're Bakura!"

Ryou smiled a bit. "Ryou Bakura, yes."

"You are most welcome to come by any time you think Yugi needs tutoring."

Yugi pulled two cans of soda from the fridge, handed one to Ryou, and went up a flight of stairs to his room. He flopped down on his bed, pulling his book bag up beside him. "Have a seat."

Quietly, Ryou pulled his math book out and handed a notebook to Yugi. "You've missed a lot of school...what chapter were you on last?"

"Twelve, I think."

Ryou's eyes widened a bit. "The test is on Chapter Eighteen."

"Oh." Yugi studied his socks, then shrugged. "Well, you don't have to teach me all the way to eighteen. You can go home whenever you want."

"We'll see how far we get tonight. You could have asked for help sooner; if not from me, I know Anzu would have helped you."

Yugi pulled a pen out of his bag. "I forgot all about the tests and chapters." He sighed. "Maybe I should have waited until next week to go back to school."

Ryou considered words of encouragement, but instead replied with, "Why were you gone for so long?"

The smaller teen shuffled through his notebook until Ryou gently pulled it away. "It's my other half, I guess. Yami. He's been...not different, but...he doesn't talk to me as much. He disappears for hours. Or, he was doing that; he's just stayed in his Soul Room since I stopped going to school. Maybe he didn't want me to know where he was going." Yugi clasped a hand over the front of the Puzzle. "But today he got me up and pushed me out the door, so I guess he's figured out what was bothering him."

Ryou nodded slightly, to be supportive, rather than out of understanding. He and his own yami never shared anything, really.

There had been at least a year where Bakura had been possessing Ryou's body, without the teen's knowledge. Those first years hadn't exactly been something to base an open friendship off of, especially with both of them as introverted and self-reliant as they were.

Scrawling the homework page number onto the paper, Ryou handed the notebook back and struggled to find something to say. "Your yami's good at dealing with problems, I'm sure that he'll pull through. He probably just doesn't want to worry you." The words sounded obvious and empty to him, but he knew it was probably the truth. Possibly a very oft-stated truth, if Yugi had spoken to anyone else about his problems.

Yugi frowned. "I know he doesn't want to worry me, I've felt the same way with my problems, but at least I didn't push him away. And he never likes me to keep things from him."

Ryou shrugged. "You know how they are. Whether they like it or not, they're going to protect us, with their after-lives if they must. They'd never think that they might need help from anyone; and besides, why should they ask for it from one of us?"

Yugi had known all of this, had thought and feared it many times already, but hearing it from another person only made it more real. Absently, he asked, "But if he won't talk to me...who else does he have?"***

Malik slept and dreamt, but of what he couldn't remember-the images vanished as soon as he sat up.

The door between his room and Isis's was open, just barely. He poked his head into his sister's room to find both of his siblings quietly preparing for work.

Malik walked in, wincing when his hand-the hand that had been used for the IV unit-brushed against the doorframe.

"Oh!" Isis jumped, seeing his reflection in the mirror. "Good morning. Do you want some breakfast?"

Malik shook his head at the offer, yawned languidly, and sat at the edge of one of the beds. "I'm fine, thank you."

Isis finished combing her hair into place and eyed him in the mirror. "How do you feel?"

As if I'm rotting inside out. I'm scared of pathetic old women wandering the halls. I don't know what I'm doing to myself every time I swallow one of those pills, and I can't stop, maybe not ever, because I've given control of my life, again, to something that isn't even alive.

"I'm fine. I slept well." Malik had kept his face blank during the icy rant in his mind. Now he toyed with the edges of the bandage on his hand. There was some sort of cartoon character painted haphazardly across the plastic strips.

After his mind was calmed, he decided to make himself comfortable. He laid back on the bed and turned on the television. Isis left ten dollars for him on the night table and then rushed out with Rishid close behind.

Malik found the show that his Band-Aid character had come from, watched it while eating a few handfuls of cereal, then went back to his room and took a shower. He'd barely tugged on his pants when he heard a hesitant rap on the door leading to the hallway.

He zipped up, "Coming!", cinched his belt and unlocked the entrance.

Yami peered up at him, frowning in surprise at Malik's half-dressed state. "I'm sorry, I should have called first."

"N-no, it's fine. Come in." He stepped back to let Yugi in, and snatched his shirt off the lip of the sink in the bathroom.

Yami examined one of the paintings on the wall, then turned to stare at Malik. "I wanted to talk to you about the record of my memories you have."

"My sister might be more useful for that." Malik had never enjoyed talking about his scars; even the mention of them made his back ache.

Dashing any hope that this had been a question about the stone tablet of the Unknown Priest and the Pharaoh dueling, Yami shook his head. "It's about the markings on your back."

"Oh. I'll help if I can." He slowly took his shirt off again and set it on Rishid's bed, assuming that Yami would want to be able to see the topic of discussion.

After a moment, Malik sat down on the bed and started to twine his shirt between his hands. "So. What questions do you have, Pharaoh?"

Yami was standing in a most confidently relaxed manner, and Malik envied him for it. He swallowed and looked at the un-vacuumed patch of carpet under the table, not sure what he felt beneath the jealousy. He wasn't really sure what he was supposed to feel, for that matter.

Respect was part of it-how could anyone defeated by Yami not have respect? And there was Fear-he was helpless mentally without the Rod, and weakening physically week by week. Hatred-he'd spent almost his entire life blaming Yami for the suffering of himself and his people. Misguided hate was as stubborn as hatred borne from reason.

But most of all his emotions, what did he feel? Shame? Humiliation? Was it possible to experience all of these things as one?

"What happened?" Yami's voice tugged him out of his introspection.

Malik looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"

"To your lip."

The blond touched the scab on his lower lip. He'd been cut by Isis's hand mirror, when he'd been drugged with Doctor Newton's pills, a fact that he felt distinctly embarrassed about now. But there were also pale gold-green bruises dotting his face, and rather than explain his hospital visit, he fell back on the jocks from the mall as an excuse for his injury. "I got in a fight."

Yami folded his arms and leaned his back against the wall. Malik wasn't the sort of person that one would think to hit; nor was he the sort of person who would accept being hurt if someone had got it in their head that he was an easy target. But he opted not to say any of that and returned with, "Ah. Are you alright?"

Malik nodded, waving off Yami's concern. Questions about his well-being were becoming repetitive, and he really didn't know how many more times he could take hearing those words. "You wanted to know about the carvings."

Yami's cool facade warmed a bit as he moved away from the wall to perch near the window. "I'm not sure it's complete."

Malik glowered and scratched his fingers through his soft, damp hair. "Well, of course not, it's mostly about your dealings with the God Cards." What was Yami expecting, a bibliography?

"But some things are missing."

The younger teen stiffened, feeling oddly defensive. "How would you know if anything was missing? The point of the Ishtar clan guarding your memories is that you don't remember anything."

"It's incomplete," Yami repeated stubbornly. "I didn't see any names mentioned; not any of the priests, not my name."

Malik could almost see his own eyes darken as he sneered. "Maybe my father didn't have room. Should have waited until I was older and my back was broader."

Yami was taken aback by Malik's sarcasm. He didn't back down but, diplomatically, he didn't continue their line of conversation.

Embarrassed by his childish outburst, but unwilling to find words for an apology, Malik ignored the stinging heat flooding his cheeks and turned so his tattoos were shown. "Have a seat. I'll try to walk you through this."

***

By the end of the hour, Malik knew that he couldn't tell Yami anything new. The Pharaoh was politely disappointed, and had thanked the young Egyptian earnestly, but there was no hiding the fact that Yami now felt he was trapped in a dead end. Resignedly, he'd gone to the museum, hoping to catch Isis before she left. Malik had assured him he had plenty of time.

This all left the seventeen-year-old with nothing to do, however. He eventually decided to try organizing the hotel rooms he and his siblings were occupying, since the maids usually only bothered to dust the televisions and scrub out the tubs.

Upon emptying out Rishid's small duffel bag, intending to put the clothes in the dresser and the valuables in his pockets-he was less than trusting with the maids, and made no secret of it-he stumbled across a familiar rectangular case, about the length of his palm.

He opened it, feeling strangely nervous, and his deck-minus any God Cards-tumbled out over his hand, some cards falling to the floor. After a shaky minute, he knelt and gathered the deck together, flipping through it with the fascination of one pawing through dark memories.

When he'd done this twice, and was about to go through it a third time, he was interrupted by yet another rap at the door.

After setting the deck down on the nearest bed, Malik yanked open the door so quickly the maid on the other side yelped. "Sorry!" She exclaimed, and held out a stack of envelopes. "These came for you."

Malik took them, grunted a "Thanks" and slipped back inside. There was a bill from the hotel, which Isis had been expecting for a few days now, and a coupon book and some junk mail. But what held Malik's attention was the small envelope addressed to Malik Ishtar, hand-written in spidery script.

There was no return address, and when he opened it he found no signature. It said, simply, "Medicine is waiting for you. Bring money to the bus stop outside the hotel."

***

The Kame Game Shop was reasonably close to the hotel where the Ishtars were staying.

This made Malik consider walking there instead of riding; he really did need to save the precious gallons of gasoline left in his motorcycle. But in the end, his need for the freedom of riding and the feel of wind encasing his body outweighed his worry over money, and he drove.

Yugi was stacking shelves when the Egyptian walked in. At hearing the small brass bells attached to the top of the door, Yugi balanced a carton of dice and smiled over his shoulder. "Welcome to-oh, hi, Malik!" He was actually looking down at the tall blond, thanks to his perch on a step ladder. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," Malik slid a hand into his pocket and retrieved a stack of cards. "I want to sell these. The guys across the street gave me an estimate, but I want a second opinion."

Large violet eyes blinked in surprise. Slowly, Yugi climbed down, set the dice package on the counter, and took Malik's cards. "A-are you sure? I mean, this is your deck. It must have taken a long time to put it together."

Malik only nodded. "It has quite a few rare cards-I guess you know that already. But it's useless to me, since the only games I can play now are without any stakes. I need money."

Yugi was still thumbing through the deck, but he had paused when Malik spoke. "You don't play anymore?"

A shrug. "It's a game. I don't have time for it anymore. I'd rather have money now." He knew the Ishtar family had nothing more to offer this game; it was a bitter thought, and it took effort to make himself accept it.

"Well, I'll have my grandpa look at it for you. He knows more about prices than I do." Yugi set it on a shelf under the cash register. "Would you like to come over tonight and watch some movies Joey's bringing over? We'll have dinner, too."

"I...that would be fun."

Yugi smiled again. "Come over around six, okay? And I'll have grandpa look at your deck when he gets back from lunch."***

Isis had been thrilled when Malik announced his plans for the evening.

In a small way, that disappointed him; having her approval meant he had no excuse not to go. That wasn't to say he wasn't excited. He was. He'd never done anything like it, and that alone made it a novelty.

But he wouldn't just be with Yugi. Where the Game King went, so followed his friends. So even though Yugi had told him to come at six, he found himself on the Game Shop's doorstep almost an hour early.

Before he could turn around, call the whole thing off, pretend he'd never been invited... Sugoroku opened the door.

Trapped, Malik stammered out, "I'm looking for Yugi?"

Sugoroku opened the door a little wider. "Come on in!" His tone was welcoming, if a little shaky with age, but Malik found it a novelty. He was rarely greeted so...happily, and it had been a long time since he'd been in the company of anyone more than ten years older than himself.

"Thank you," the Egyptian said warmly.

"Yugi! A guest for you!" The old man hollered as soon as the door was shut.

Not long after, Yugi trotted into the room, holding an armload of cupcakes. "Hi, Malik!" He said, not at all surprised to see the blond so much earlier than expected. "This way."

And just like that, he was swept into the home of the Game King. The room in which they ended up was already bustling with Yugi's group of friends-except one, the brunet whose name Malik couldn't remember. Around the coffee table they were talking, or arguing, Malik couldn't tell which; the table itself was holding a stack of movies, a bowl of popcorn, bags of chips, and a liter of some sort of soda.

Yugi laid his cupcakes down on a clear spot and joined the small group.

Malik honestly couldn't gauge the other teenagers' reactions to him. Anzu had waved once, when he'd walked in, but that might have been directed to Yugi, who had slumped onto the couch next to Joey, who was busy reading the back of one of the video cases.

So, Malik took the middle ground, and sat down on the floor next to the sofa.

Anzu leaned over him to snatch the video out of Joey's hands. "We're *not* watching this one!" She said, firmly, and Yugi frowned a bit.

Joey tried to take it back but the girl moved out of reach. "Well, what *should* we watch?" To Yugi he added, "We can always stay up after she's gone home."

Malik idly took another video off the coffee table. 'The Fly'.

Puzzling over its meaning, he turned it over and studied the little pictures that ran along the description. Even more confused after his examination, he placed it back on the table and took another.

He found it to be much more interesting. "I vote this one," he told Yugi, handing it up. He wasn't sure if breaking the ice that way was a good idea; it might seem he was taking sides, against Joey no less, and he knew from experience that was a noisy, messy business.

But Yugi just took the case, stood up, and put it in the VCR. "We'll watch this one," he announced to his friends.

"We're not waiting for Tristan?" Joey asked, not sounding like he cared all that much that they were starting without the other boy.

Anzu shrugged. "He'll be here." With that, she opened the bag of pretzels and sat back to watch the movie.

Again to Yugi, Malik asked, "What about...Bakura? Ryou, I mean?"

"I don't know if he's coming or not," the smaller teen said quietly.

Malik turned back to the screen, but couldn't pay much attention to it. Joey was ignoring him, very devoutly. Compared to a few days ago, outside the cosmetics store (before Yugi had seen him collapse), this was a drastic change.

Shame crept up his neck as he realized that Yugi had probably told Joey about Malik's 'condition' to avoid any contention. Whether or not Yugi had invited him out of friendship was still in question, but was there any doubt that he was being allowed here out of pity?

His worries were slapped away by a flying box of donuts. Literally. He heard a shouted, "Heads up!" several seconds too late, and then laughter.

Uneasily Malik joined in the laughing, and set the donuts beside him.

Tristan leapt over the couch but ended up squishing Joey in the process. Predictably, a mock battle began, ending in a food fight when Anzu began throwing her pretzels at them.

"So, what're we watching?" Tristan asked, eyeing the screen.

"I think this one's like an Australian, live-action Bambi," Anzu said.

"It's Crocodile Dundee," Yugi laughed. "It's funny."

"Oh."

Yugi stood up and finally turned off the lights.


	9. Chapter Nine

Malik's fingers were caked with powdered sugar and raspberry jam from the donuts Yugi had passed him. The cheese-flavored chips he'd eaten weren't blending well with all the other junk food and soda he'd shared.

Though he was fortunate. He'd eaten far less than the others. Joey was nearly passed out by the end of the third movie, and Tristan had requested Pepto-Bismol. Yugi had walked Anzu to the door and was still missing. Ryou hadn't turned up, something that no one had commented on, and Malik wasn't sure if this was because they thought he might still show up, or perhaps they didn't care.

His mind drifted as sleep--and some nausea--blotted out the sounds and sights from the television.

The first image to float up from his murky, drowsy thoughts was a face. A man's face, young enough to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but aged with secrets and unseen scars.

And hatred.

Malik knew hatred the way others knew childhood blankets. Very few people had bitterness to match what the youngest Ishtar had held for nearly seven years. The messenger was not one of them, though he had a fair amount in his own right.

This man spoke through his eyes, unable to hide the intricate ferocity that itched to loose itself on any deserving mortal. His silent mouth was held in a casual way that seemed practiced; as if he longed to be scowling and would not let himself. He was carefully groomed, his slightly scarred face was clean shaven and his dark red-brown hair was combed back.

Malik remembered meeting this man at the bus stop as instructed in Dr. Newton's message, remembered exchanging the elegant note for vile medication. The thought that this man worked for the doctor caused Malik's blood to pound in his ears, and he longed to have done something bloody and agonizing to the messenger to repay him for his role in Malik's imprisonment.

But he hadn't.

He'd taken the pills, examined them to be sure they were the same he'd been taking the past few months. From the outside, they appeared the same--red and gold skinny tubes which, when shaken, sounded as if they were filled with sand or small beads. There was no way to tell if they were the same chemicals, but Malik had no choice but to trust that they were. So he walked away a few feet, then waited until the man boarded a bus before heading to Yugi's house. Through the whole thing, not a word had been spoken, even when Malik demanded to know how they'd known where he was.

With a twitch, Malik roused from the almost-dream and found a pair of legs standing near his head. Startled, and already uneasy from brooding on the messenger and Newton, Malik jerked away. His shoulder slammed into the newcomer's knees.

Ryou, not a particularly graceful or sure-footed person by nature, fell backwards. He struggled to catch himself on the arm of the sofa, and succeeded only in landing hard on his side.

"Ow..." he grumbled softly, wincing. Then, remembering his manners perhaps, smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, Malik, I didn't mean to surprise you. I was just trying to step over you."

Malik nodded, rubbing a sore spot on his head where Ryou's foot had caught him in the fall. "I was dreaming. Not your fault."

"I thought you were." He looked around the room. "Everyone's asleep already?"

"It's past midnight, isn't it?"

Ryou nodded thoughtfully.

Malik glanced at the sofa to find that Yugi was still missing. The dread of meeting anyone sent from Newton's clinic--even in dreams--had stolen any desire for sleep. Fortunately, Ryou didn't appear to be any more tired than he was. Odd boy that Ryou was, he tended to stay up until dawn when the mood struck him. Malik supposed that was good for Bakura, to inhabit a body that didn't need to sleep as often as most "mortals".

Speaking of... "Your yami agreed to come to this?"

Ryou smiled faintly. "Well, it was either come with me or be left at home without food. The pizza delivery men don't come to our apartment anymore and he doesn't know how to cook very well, so he came willingly. He just...made sure I don't expect him to socialize," Ryou added, tapping the Ring to explain Bakura's apparent absence.

Malik stood and padded to the kitchen, hearing Ryou follow him moments later. He searched as quietly as possible for a glass and poured himself some water from the tap. It was warm, but Malik actually preferred it that way and drank it down greedily, glad to be rid of the slightly sour taste in his mouth.

His skin tingled faintly with the touch of magic, and he turned to find the Ring glowing and then dimming as Bakura took shape beside Ryou, one slouching against the table and the other standing close to the door.

"Well, this was loads of fun," the thief muttered.

Malik shook his head. "The fun started hours ago. You missed it." He refilled his glass, this time sipping at the lukewarm water while he eyed the spirit uneasily. He''d never been able to fully trust Bakura--nor was the thief able to fully trust him--and now he was unsure of himself in the other's presence.

"You're lining your eyes again," Bakura eventually said.

Malik nodded once, wondering how to react to that. "You noticed?"

Bakura grunted. "Not getting into any more fights, are you?" That earned him a scowl. "Well, good. You've got enough bruises to last a while."

Malik glowered at him, but it blended quickly into a smirk. "Are you that anxious to rush in and protect me? Longing to be my knight in shining armour or whatever bullshit they say around here?"

Bakura blinked; Ryou smothered a laugh by saying, "You seem better since we last saw you, Malik."

"Uhn." Malik swallowed some more of his water. "Irritated, maybe." He sat down at the table.

"You have your motorcycle back, right? I'd wondered what happened to it."

"Why? Do you want it?"

Ryou tilted his head a bit, not used to Malik being so talkative. Nor had he ever imagined Malik would joke about giving away his bike.

Bakura took Malik's water and drank almost half of it before handing it back, then said, "As if we'd believe you'd actually sell that thing."

Malik rubbed at the rim of his glass and shrugged. "I'd never want to. What took you so long to get here?"

Malik knew there were any number of things Bakura could have been doing, ranging from the sinisterly insane to outright homicidal, but he didn't want to take the time to voice any of them. At least not where Yugi or the Pharaoh could walk in and hear.

He wasn't surprised to see a strange, rather pleased gleam in the theif's eyes. "That's a long story. But the short version is..."

****

Yami had been busy helping Sugoroku with the shop through most of the party. Around midnight they finally finished, and the pharaoh stretched kinks out of his neck while carefully making his way to the living room. It wasn't very likely anyone would be up, since they were all accustomed to rising before dawn in order to go to school, but it was better to make an effort than to be accused of being negligent of his friends.

Yugi was just shutting the front door when Yami passed him, and smiled tiredly at the spirit. "You're finally done?"

Yami nodded slightly. "It was a big freight, but at least we're set for another month. Did I miss anything?"

"Well, donuts I guess. And some horror movies. Bakura's here with Ryou I think, so don't get into anything with him, okay?"

"If you insist." He glanced to the kitchen, where he heard voices. "Is...?"

"Malik's here," Yugi confirmed. "And Bakura, so I should probably try to herd them back to the group."

"Yes, because they're so much less trouble around us." Yami commented dryly.

Yugi responded with a smile. "Sarcasm will get you nowhere. I still need you on policing duty." With that, Yugi turned and padded into the kitchen.

Yami continued on into the living room, where he crawled onto the empty sofa. He wasn't really looking forward to seeing Bakura or Malik, their recent enmity aside. Had he the ability, Yami would have chosen to return his past, and anything which might remind him of it, to the flowing sands of Egypt.

As Malik had earlier that night, Yami drifted into a light sleep, filled with memory rather than dreams. Where Malik dreamt of a stranger, Yami remembered friends and relatives dying under moonlight and sunlight and clouds. One at a time, Yami had sacrificed their lives to spare the peasants and grave keepers who would forget or ultimately turn against him.

He knew that Yugi suspected. He knew Yugi had even seen small portions of his memories... It took everything he had to hold his tongue, to resist the urge to tell the worst of it to Yugi. A glance at Bakura and he remembered his dead family; a word from Malik and he now thought of the pain he had caused those he loved and those who deserved it, before he'd died and after. That was enough to stop him from telling any of it to Yugi.

He felt weight against his arms and opened his eyes to find Yugi laying a blanket on him. He blinked a few times and sat up, despite Yugi's quiet disapproval. He glanced around the room to find Ryou, Bakura and Malik settling down on the floor.

When Yami laid back down, the guilt and betrayal had all but faded from his mind and his sleep became dreamless.

****

Without the curtains drawn, sunlight splashed into the room and into the eyes of all the occupants of Yugi Mutou's living room. Even with that blinding morning greeting, some were slower to wake than others. Most of those latest to rise found themselves attacked by cheese puffs and leftover chips.

They were hesitant to rouse Malik that way, for one. Fortunately he'd fallen asleep away from the group and they were free to go about teasing each other. Their rowdiness would jar him awake soon enough anyway. Yami was another problem, since Yugi was the only one who dared attack the Pharaoh. And Ryou had Bakura...had it not involved touching him, Joey would have tried rolling him out of the way.

So Bakura and Malik continued to sleep while the rest of the room wasted the last of the snacks in a half-hearted food fight.

When everyone was up, and showers were taken, Malik gave Ryou--and Bakura, now back in the Ring--a ride home. He considered going home for a while himself to see if Isis or Rishid needed anything, but decided in the end that it could wait. He had a few errands to run first.

****

The man was tall and broad, and he chewed so much cinnamon gum it made Malik's nose hurt. His name was Ice, or so his half-obscured name tag said. He was dressed in dark blue, greasy coveralls, which matched his greasy, wavy black hair. And he was raking his eyes so carelessly over Malik's motorcycle, the Egyptian was afraid the paint would chip.

"Well," Ice drawled slowly, and paused a second to mash his gum a few times, "I'll give you 700 for it."

This might as well have been an insult. "700? That's not even half what I paid for it! Not to mention all the adjustments I made, the extra parts I had put on!"

Ice shrugged, making it clear that he'd heard similar arguments before, and wasn't about to start listening. "Well, it's worth more in single parts. Then you're not selling a motorcycle, y'know. You're selling some tires and scrap metal."

Malik thought he might be sick with rage. "Forget it!" Without a second glance he jammed the key in the ignition and drove away.

****

Isis swiped the keycard through the lock and wearily opened the door to her hotel room. Her home. It was empty and dark, and a quick glance into her brothers' room showed her that she was alone for the moment.

It took a moment for her to wonder where her brothers were. Her thoughts did not immediately turn to concern that they might be injured or in need of help. In truth, her first reaction was slight irritation that they had eaten the last of the leftovers.

Deciding to ignore their inconsiderate habits for now, Isis kicked off her shoes and lay down on her bed, sighing in relief at the soft mattress under her back. She could hear the neighbor's television blaring through the thin walls and frowned. She had been raised without electricity and television was more a nuisance than a novelty for her. This was not true for Malik, who relished every new technological advancement he found, while Rishid enjoyed a few mid afternoon talk shows but otherwise agreed with his sister.

These thoughts were light on her mind, allowed her head to swim all it wanted without touching down on anything substantial, and she was content to keep it that way. Her head ached, mostly just above her eyes, and it was unrelentingly exhausting.

A few minutes passed and she opened one eye to peer at the red digits of her alarm clock. 7 p.m. Malik at least ought to be home, and it was a safe assumption that he'd taken Rishid with him. She felt another flash of irritation for her brothers, this time for not leaving her a note as to where she could reach them.

An hour later the door opened again, allowing in Rishid, who had brought dinner.

"Vegetable lasagna," he explained. "I helped a kind woman at a diner and she wanted me to have this."

Rishid was a reasonably good cook, but Isis couldn't imagine him working at a diner. To avoid unnecessary thinking and mental images of Rishid in a chef's hat (she wasn't the type to laugh at people, especially her brothers), she chose to nod and thank him--profusely--and set out dinner.

"Have you heard from Malik?"

The man shook his head once. "I have not seen him since last night. Perhaps he is still at the Pharaoh's?"

She frowned. "I doubt it."

"At Bakura's?"

"I hope not."

Rishid smiled a bit, but whether it was because he was amused or agreeing with her, Isis couldn't tell. They sat down and ate, and were nearly done when Malik came in. Isis silently checked him over for new bruises. She hadn't asked about those he had come home with last week, but she did find herself looking him over more closely now.

Satisfied that he wasn't hurt, she motioned to the last tin container. "Rishid brought dinner. You may want to heat it in the microwave first."

"Thanks." He took it, scooped the lasagna onto a paper plate to put in the microwave and turned on the TV.

Isis hesitated before asking, but during a soap commercial she finally cleared her throat and relented. "Where have you been?"

Malik glanced at her. "At Yugi's."

Isis pursed her lips and pretended to not be watching him. "Anywhere else?"

She could see him bristling. "A few motorcycle places." His tone was dismissive, if a little annoyed. He returned his attention to dinner and a sitcom.

How to phrase this so that he wouldn't misunderstand? Malik resented being controlled, and he would buck against even her if he thought she was meddling in his affairs. "I think that we ought to leave each other messages...so that we may find each other if we need to."

Malik was still for a long time. Then, quietly, "Alright. I'll leave a note for you on the night stand when I leave." Isis fought a relieved sigh.

That hadn't been so bad.


	10. Chapter Ten

**_Solace_**

The day came warm and overcast, with pearly gray clouds. Each breeze was just a little more wet than the last, threatening rain and a slow, heavy storm. The birds had tucked themselves up into the leaves to wait for it to pass.

For Yami, storms were a fascination. No matter how many times he saw themthey always made him contemplative and quiet. His best planning was done under heavy skies.

Yugi was sitting at the dining room table, watching his taller counterpart and feeling somehow left out. The feeling worsened as the sky slowly thickened.

"Yami?"

The question was an intrusion, but the spirit didn't seem to even react to it. It took several minutes before a slight warmth in Yugi's mind revealed that Yami was acknowledging him.

"What are you thinking?" Yugi's entire body threatened to ache with how still he was being. He hadn't wanted to startle Yami; it had begun to feel like spying, and he'd finally broken his silence.

"I am wondering how long it will take for the first rain to fall."

Yugi slid off his chair and stood beside his yami. "It'll probably be a few hours." He chewed on his thoughts for a while. Every day for over a month, he went to sleep feeling he'd made some sort of progress with the spirit, felt that he was just a little bit closer to him. Every morning the hope was doused. He longed to say this, to snap at his self-appointed guardian.

A more diplomatic route was chosen. "I know you don't want to tell me about your memories. I...I can respect that. I mean, I do. But that doesn't mean you can't talk to me at all."

Startled crimson eyes turned to him. "I do talk to you."

Yugi shook his head. "You don't. You're a part of me, and it feels like you're trying to pull away. Small talk isn't the same. I shouldn't have to talk to my soul about something like the weather and then just go back to my life. You're part of my life; you're half of my life! I need you, and if you've found out something that's going to take you away from me, from us, then tell me, please!"

Yami stared at him, tense, bracing himself as he decided. "Not even time can take me away from you, Yugi." Flashes of memory assaulted him; he remembered banishing others to an unforgiving desert. To death. "...Unless..." Yami was a little surprised to find his words sounded so soft, and were so hard to speak. "...unless you ask me to go."

He felt Yugi move, felt the Puzzle's heir slip arms around his shoulders in a hug. And then he knew; Yugi wasn't hugging him because he was oblivious to the things Yami had caused. He wasn't hugging Yami because he thought the Pharaoh was a hero.

Yugi _cared_. Yugi would always care, no matter what he did. No matter what he had done.

It didn't take the guilt away; it didn't absolve the pain. No other person could...and in that moment, more clearly than he ever had before, Yami knew that, too.

But it helped.

Diego's life had been stolen from him. When he'd taken the poisoned cup and _lived_ in spite of it, he had given up everything he had worked his entire life for. He kept the training, and the skills, but not the position and not the respect.

The poison, the injury, and his forced retirement had earned him pity. If he had died, he would have been honored.

And yet, he would have given up his accomplishments all over again, would have taken the poison as many times as it took if it meant he could have saved Colin. But that wasn't an option; it never had been.

However, he still had his life. He couldn't save Colin no matter how stubbornly he wanted it. He could, instead, bend all his thought and will and might on one thing Colin could appreciate even in death: revenge.

For the first time since his almost-complete recovery, Diego felt a glimmer of thanks for being mute. He hadn't been forced to speak with Ishtar because of it. If he'd been able to speak, he might well have ended up compromising everything.

It had been nearly impossible to restrain himself. He had been so close to Ishtar he could have killed him, and yet he hadn't. The only consolation was seeing the confusion and fear and anger in the boy's eyes. Ishtar had demanded to know if Newton had sent him; Diego had smirked to himself and for once been happy to stay silent.

Ishtar had examined the pills in almost panic. Diego was glad he was unable to laugh, because he wouldn't have been able to stop himself otherwise. Yes, the pills were exactly the same as Malik had been forced to take in the hospital. The irony was that the boy was now willing to poison himself.

Diego hadn't been told what the pills did but he hoped, feverishly, that it would make the boy suffer before Newton was finally ready to take him back. Somehow Diego wasn't worried at all that he'd be disappointed.

In Domino, there were a vast number of odd jobs for people willing to do them. There would always be doors in need of painting, sidewalks in need of sweeping, lawns in need of raking. All sorts of little tasks which some employers were unwilling to pay even minimum wage to have done.

Those employers were always happy to see Rishid. He would accept the small one-day jobs with no complaints and no papers to be signed, for less than minimum wage. Sometimes he'd even do the jobs for nothing more than meals or damaged clothing which hadn't been sold by the end of the day. The employers had at least two less things to worry about, and Rishid could offer one more thing Isis wouldn't have to pay for.

Isis's paycheck, which hadn't been much to smile at anyway, had taken a very heavy blow with Malik's stay in the hospital. She hid the papers revealing just how expensive the examination had been from her younger brother, but the strain of holding everything together had brought her to share the truth with Rishid. The man had agreed with her logic; it would do more harm than good to tell Malik how much harder things were because they had his hospital bill to worry about. Especially since Malik's condition wasn't improving.

Rishid left the hotel after Isis. He was there when Malik woke up. He knew that the past two days, Malik hadn't left the hotel, not even once. He knew Malik was as likely to still be curled on the bed when Isis returned, whether or not the woman saw it.

Rishid didn't see how she wouldn't. Malik, whose enthusiasm for the outside world had only partially been curbed with hatred for the Pharaoh, didn't seem even tempted to leave his room. At first Rishid had assumed Malik was sick, but found that he wasn't.

Then the motorcycle disappeared.

When Rishid asked about it, Malik pretended not to hear and vanished into the bathroom for a shower which often lasted several hours. Rishid knew the motorcycle wasn't the problem. Malik's strange behavior had started before it had gone missing, and though Rishid had asked, Malik had never answered him then either.

He didn't know if he ought to tell Isis any of this. He didn't think it wise to tell Malik about the financial problems, but added stress over the youngest Ishtar's mental health couldn't be any better for Isis. He knew eventually he'd have to talk to her, especially if Malik refused to.

Rishid glanced down at the plastic bag he was carrying and forced weighty thoughts from his mind. He had a new cream-colored dress for Isis, and a black hooded sweatshirt for Malik. For himself he had taken a black derby hat.

Winter was coming--he could feel a storm building wetly around him as he walked--and the Ishtar family was ill-equipped for it now. Malik, with his sleeveless midriff shirts, Isis with her light-cloth dresses, and Rishid...well, Rishid was bald and that tended to get cold. He was sure that Isis-and perhaps even Malik, if he could find his brother awake-would be pleased with his choice of winter clothing for them.

Sleet dripped from the sky. Isis didn't know when the storm had begun, but walking home from she could see all too well that the sun had given up its attempts to push through the clouds. This left the day a few shades darker than twilight**-**-a grieving, disparaged color.

Barely a block from the museum, Isis was already soaked through. Wet half-melted sleet clung to her clothes and hair, making her feel heavy. She had never seen such weather; rain, yes, and cold days as well. But this...this was a half-hearted attempt at snow, gray as it fell and almost melted and then decided to freeze. It lacked the wondrous feel of white snow; it had dread.

She shivered, realizing then that she had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. A man with an umbrella pushed past her and knocked her from her thoughts. She took a few steps forward to stand under the eave of a salon.

Methodically--absently--she brushed slush from her dress, keeping her expression neutral. When had this begun? The emptiness...where, when, had it come to her? She thought about the museum and her stomach tightened with violent despair. She refused to let her mind pull away from it.

The exhibit had been created to help the Pharaoh, and allow her to track Malik at the same time. In truth she had never been thrilled about showing her family's artifacts, but necessity and love were impossibly powerful masters. And now the Pharaoh, Atem, had his memories and she had her family.

An image of that first night after Atem and Malik's duel stabbed through her mind. That Malik had said nothing; that Rishid couldn't seem to look at her; and overlaying it, her paltry attempts at conversation. But what had there been to say when the main purpose of their lives was finally closed?

Malik had told her once, when he stole one of the cards from her, that he did whathe did for only one thing: to return their lives to him; his, and hers, and Rishid's. He had wanted only to have a family again.

Failure had never been a consideration for him. It never was. Being wrong was a notion Malik stubbornly refused to believe in...and when at last he'd been faced with it, it had battered him. When it sunk in, he ran from her as he always did, and as always she had been pulled behind him. All the way back to Domino.

Anger overlapped her sorrow for a moment and simmered. How, _how_ could he be so childish, even with all that he had been through? Isis drew a slow breath and coaxed her patience back.

She and Rishid were eldest. They were charged with Malik's well-being, and she had never resented it. But they had been told to protect Malik Ishtar, the heir of the Clan, so that he could fulfill the family's sacred duty. The debt was now paid. They had done what no other Ishtar had been able to, and so life after completing their mission had never been a part of their lessons. It had never been a passing dream in their father's mind, she knew.

She wondered at times if they were supposed to have died in their task. Had anyone everconsidered what would become of the grave keepers once their purpose was gone? Surely no one had predicted an Heir might rebel. Even if they had predicted it, they must certainly have dismissed it, reasoning Atem would destroy any such threat before long. Isis had feared the Pharaoh would do so; but there was Yugi. Malik had lived, and his reason for rebellion was gone...but his nature was not changed.

Malik was not a servant, and resented even the idea that he would be thought of as one. But he had no right to rule, no people to lead, and no direction to follow. Rishid and Isis filled such needs as they could. She whored out the secrets of their people to feed the three of them; Rishid left some time after she did, and returned late with offerings of food or clothing. Malik took. And took. And took.

She loved him endlessly, but god help her, sometimes the pain he caused her was so fierce it made her choke.

She could think of no way to explain to him that he was no longer the Heir. He had never wanted to be in the first place, but all the same he had never known anything except having his siblings there to give more than he had to.

Malik was loving and devoted, and angry and selfish. The three of them were _all_ floundering, and it felt as if Malik had again left it to her and Rishid to pick up what he would not bear.

Not a tear fell as she stood watching the sleet. When she went home they ate, and went to bed and waited for the sleet to stop.

There were times when it seemed as if the sun and the darkness and life itself weren't even there.

Sometimes, it seemed the world was made of frail gray shapes, so translucent and dull Malik could barely remember they existed. It was as if the world became a forest of dead, blackened trees, and he was surrounded with chalky mist. When he let his mind wander, that was in fact exactly what he saw.

Isis and Rishid were a splash of color in an otherwise flat, empty world. But they were gone most of the time, trying to provide for him. When he wasn't with them, the memory of them seemed to become even more invisible than the intemperate air.

He could be walking and feel as if he were standing still. Nothing changed in the opaque grayness around him. He couldn't drag up the energy to do _anything_, and when he thought to, truth would rise murkily up to drown him: there was no point.

He had found a little relief with Yugi and Ryou and even Bakura, but it passed as smoothly as tears. When he'd realized the tiny haven was moving persistently away, Malik tried to hold on to it. He failed. This feeling was entirely out of his control.

Before, Malik had been able to resist, or change, or at least _act_ on whateverfeelings he found in himself. He had simply taken for granted that he would always be able to handle his own emotions. It had never once occurred to him that maybe what others said was true, that emotions ruled the person and not the other way around.

When he paused to think on this newest scrap of lost control, it was the only thing that even hinted at giving him something stronger than the overwhelming blankness. He was desperate to feel _anything_ in this unmoving gray. But...not desperate enough.

Because the bitter self-loathing it brought was too strong, and so sudden it nearly smothered him. Hatred, turned in on himself, took him away from the gray forest and into cavernous gulfs so deep he couldn't bring himself to imagine what might be down there.

He'd thought there wasn't anything which could be worse than feeling nothing, but that was a lie. In the emptiness, he was simply stuck with nowhere to go. The bitterness grabbed, clawed, ached to drag him down where it pleased.

At least, feeling nothing, he knew where he was. At least, if he was stuck, he wouldn't be swept away.

Light slipped between the blinds to fall across his lap. The sudden shift from autumnmorning shadow to a slant of light was startling; for a moment the nothingness in his mind hesitated. Without it there, the moment passed and fear and helpless despair folded swiftly over him. Shivering, he drew his hands into the sleeves of the black hooded sweater Rishid had given him the night before.

His fingers idly began spinning a ball point pen. He had meant to write something for Isis, she had asked him to, but he couldn't remember what the task had been and the paper remained mockingly blank. She wouldn't be happy; the tired strain in her face would be resignedly worse. He glanced once at his only other pair of pants, where the envelope with his money was hidden in one of the cargo pockets. Perhaps, though, he did have something which would help put her at ease.

His eyes stung briefly with tears. Anger and humiliation spun in him and as if to retaliate he dragged the point of the pen across the top of his hand, hard. Even so it only hurt a little, left nothing more than a scrape and vivid black ink for his effort. He jammed the pen into his hand again, more viciously, broke the skin this time.

A small dot of blood welled up, not enough to run or even need cleaning. But it hurt enough to make him gasp; stop; set the pen down.

The numbing knot in his stomach had loosened, as it had not in weeks. The throbbing in his hand pushed at the empty agony which had enveloped him, forcing it away, relieving tension he hadn't known was there.

The relief brought on a sudden, nauseating recognition of what he had done. Panic and horror banished everything else. Malik tossed the pen aside and left the room, trying not to think about it, trying to focus on the pain and disgust instead of....****


	11. Chapter Eleven

**_AN: _**_Allo! Welcome to the next chapter of Solace Still reading? Well, there's a lot happening in this chapter. (Chapter Eleven! That means I've only got six more chapters to post!) Since it's taken me so long to update I'll give you all a brief recap._

_Malik's a runaway from Forest Hills Hospital, where the head doctor does freaky things to his patients. You know, like turning them into animals for starters. Doctor Newton's experiments are being funded by an unknowing Seto Kaiba, for the promise of a tax break. (Mwahaha?)_

_Colin Persa is a mute former-secret serviceman whose brother was killed by Malik. He's out to take Malik back to the hospital for vengeance._

_Meanwhile, the Ishtars are staying in Domino and working out a life post-destiny. Malik is sick in a few ways, but he got to go to a party with Ryou, Yugi, Bakura et all which thrilled Isis. Rishid's taking odd jobs._

_Yami's not very happy with his memories, in which he seems to turn on those he loves. (Who would be happy remembering that you had to kill those you loved for people who would betray you? Poor Yami... sniffle) But he's working that out with encouragement from Yugi, which is decidedly a good thing._

_And...I think that brings us up to speed._

_As a side note since I don't know if I'll go into this in detail via Malik-thoughts later...No, Malik's not suicidal. If he was, he wouldn't do it with a knife or any other sharp object._

_Finally, HUGE thanks go to Borath who beta'd this while she was staying at my house (Weekend of heaven, yeah, baby! .)_

**_Solace _**

_Chapter 11_

The week had begun stormy, with sleet spilling onto the ground to freeze leaves and strewn trash that the winds had kicked loose from the too-full bins outside the hotel. By Thursday the sky had cleared and burned a dark October blue, a few cold white clouds left in place, following where the storm went.

Saturday morning, Malik was still asleep when Rishid had finished showering and dressing. A rather harsh knock at the front door startled Rishid into dropping the pen he'd been using to map out his day, but the sound did nothing to rouse the blond.

The light in the hall was dim and flickered a few times when Rishid opened the door. Bakura looked up at him briefly, just enough for it to be considered an acknowledgment, and then pushed his way inside and strode easily to Malik's bed before Rishid could comment.

Malik was still asleep and unaware of this intrusion. He was wrapped deep under the blankets and shivering from time to time, but otherwise still and quiet. Bakura flicked the covers off without a second of hesitation, though he kept a noticeable distance in case Malik struck out at him.

Instead of that, Malik sat up sharply and glowered. He relaxed only a little and tiredly rubbed at his eyes once or twice when he saw who it was.

Bakura smirked faintly at the disheveled look Malik was left with. His hair was tousled and matted from not brushing it after his shower the night before, and despite having slept nearly three days he didn't look any refreshed for it.

The blond, noticing the expression, didn't take to it at all. "What?" he snarled acidically. The blankets had been warm and gathered just so about him; he could even pretend that he didn't feel as if the world was spinning around him, leaving him dizzy and alone. Bakura intruding in on his discomfort was even more unwelcome than it would have usually been. He fought a shudder, unwilling to tremble where Bakura could see him.

Malik's general attitude was condescending and his tether was only as long as a matchstick. When he argued with Bakura he usually became more haughty as Bakura became more threatening, and both of them could be ridiculously stubborn. Even so, Rishid had only seen him snap at Bakura perhaps once before, and that had been when they'd first met and begun working together.

Bakura seemed taken by surprise as well because he paused before retorting, "don't you think the maids are tired of having to clean _around_ your lazy ass? Get up."

Rishid looked from Malik to the thief and back again, before quietly retreating to Isis's room. Malik couldn't ask him to throw Bakura out if he wasn't there to be asked.

Luckily Malik was too busy glaring at Bakura to notice his brother vanishing. "It's what, six in the morning? What do you want?"

Bakura tossed the blankets on the floor and folded his arms over his chest. "Get _up_. I'm not going to ask again."

Malik ground his teeth together, looking mad enough to kill if Bakura came within reach, and stood up. He knew the tomb robber well enough to know that he had only one chance left to get up on his own.

Wordlessly, a glare punctuating his silence, he dared Bakura to give him another order.

"Get a shirt on and let's go." Bakura kicked Malik's boots away from the bed and waited.

"Should I even ask 'where'?" Malik muttered, waiting just long enough to irritate Bakura before scooping up his black sweat shirt and yanking on his socks and shoes.

"Ask all you want," Bakura said, opening the door and holding it open. "Just keep walking."

Malik paused at the door, where he would have to pass under the thief's arm to get out. It had occurred to him that going without knowing what the spirit was planning was probably dangerous. Their eyes met for a moment, Bakura's expressionless and Malik's wary. Then the teen ducked his head and went out.

Bakura followed, allowing the door to slam shut behind them. "Stairs." He made a gesture, in case Malik had forgotten where to go. That earned him a dirty look, but Malik continued on ahead. At least there was no more argument.

They passed a tired-looking desk clerk without a word and stepped out under a peach morning-sky. Here Bakura took the lead, making his way to a badly parked silver car.

When Bakura got in and motioned Malik to do the same, the teen regained his familiar sneer. "You drove here by yourself?"

Bakura looked sidelong at him as he started the car. "Why?"

The smirk became a little more pronounced. "Just a guess. Where'd you get the car? It's not Ryou's."

"I 'found' it. I'm surprised you didn't 'guess' that, too." The car squealed once as they pulled out, and rumbled when they stopped behind a truck at a red light.

Malik laughed once, softly enough that it was almost masked by the car's screeching when they began moving again. "You couldn't have 'found' a nice sports car or motorcycle?"

"I suppose you'd want me to snatch up yours." The blond stiffened a tiny bit at that, but Bakura didn't give him any notice. It wasn't really his concern if something as simple as selling a motorcycle was a sore subject.

Malik began picking at the frayed edges of the seatbelt he wasn't wearing. "Where are we going?"

Nothing sarcastic immediately sprang to mind, so Bakura chose not to answer at all. Ordinarily this would have driven Malik mad with impatience, but today he merely sat back into the lumpy seat and watched the scenery pass in silence.

After a half hour or so they pulled into the parking lot of a small restaurant. Bakura turned the car off. "Get out," he said gruffly.

Malik took count of the cars in the parking lot, a knot of dread tightening in him when he realized how full that restaurant would be. "I'm not hungry."

"Yes you are." Bakura opened his door but stayed sitting, waiting for Malik to get up first.

"I'd know if I was, wouldn't I?"

Bakura appeared bored with Malik's response and tilted his head back towards the restaurant. "They serve koshari."

Surprised, Malik could only stare at the thief. "You..." what he'd begun to say froze on his tongue and he finished flatly, "don't like koshari."

Bakura shrugged once. "They serve other things, I'm sure. It's called 'Diner' not 'Koshari Palace' if you'll notice."

Malik watched the clapboard building, willing himself to move. Thoughts of the crowd that awaited them seemed to press down on him, pinning him, and he couldn't move.

The thief gave him only a minute to collect himself. When it appeared the youngest Ishtar wasn't going to get out, Bakura slid out of the car, walked around to Malik, yanked open the door and grabbed him roughly by the shoulder.

Panic began to trickle into Malik's mind, but Bakura tugged him along, not allowing him time to struggle, walking ahead of him, keeping his fist tight around the black sweater. The scent of pancakes and bacon rested in the air around the building, forming a warm barrier to walk through on the way in.

There were faux lanterns set into the walls and up above, shedding dim yellow light on fingerprint-stained dark wood and gray-green carpets. Most of the other customers were already seated, chatting amid the clank of silverware and porcelain. The fact that their entrance went unnoticed at first gave Malik a moment to gather himself.

When he had, he yanked his arm away from Bakura hard enough that his elbow nearly smacked against the wall, and stood seething, glaring. "How _dare_ you," he hissed, and turned to leave.

Turned, and nearly ran into the hostess who had come to seat them. She stared a little bit longer than a simple greeting required, clearly wondering what had upset the blond, but decided to pretend she hadn't noticed at all. "Welcome...this way, please. Just two?"

Bakura nodded once on their behalf. When the hostess's back was turned he planted a hand between Malik's shoulder blades, began to push him forward. Malik cringed and moved forward out of reach, but this still put him further into the café.

When they reached their booth, Malik pressed himself against the wall, turned a little to face the aisle. It was a disturbingly defensive and frightened posture and some part of him knew it and acknowledged it distantly.

Bakura's fingers pushed and chased a knife around on the table as he watched this. When the waitress came Malik seemed to huddle further in on himself, even went so far as to lower his gaze, went even further and shook visibly. He heard Bakura order for both of them-two waters, a dish of koshari, a steak cooked very rare. When the waitress left, Malik remained still, feeling the world falling away from him, hearing voices crashing down into shrieks, incomprehensive and piercing.

"Malik. Look at me. Look up." Bakura's voice sounded strange, tinny, muted. A woman laughed nearby, too near, so close that Malik flinched.

Moving jarred him out of this falling, wrecking state. When Bakura spoke again he could hear the thief more clearly. "Look _up_ here, dammit!" Malik did, and wished he hadn't. Bakura's expression was annoyed, disgusted, and uncertain at once; it was an expression Malik had never thought he'd receive from the thief, one that he would never have wanted.

There was a butter knife clenched tight in Bakura's fist. He set it down when Malik noticed, and forced himself to appear cold as he always was. "Just stay here. Are you listening? Malik...stay here. Don't listen to the other people. You're going to sit here and eat. Then we're going to leave. If you eat, we'll leave."

There was patronization in that tone, but Malik was too absorbed with fear to be angry. "Not hungry," he mumbled, but his voice was sticky and his words choked themselves into a strange whisper. It should have been humiliating. If there was a later, maybe it would be then.

"You _are_ hungry, and you're going to fucking eat, do you hear me?" Bakura growled this out, patience thinning. Malik's eyes darted back to the strange couple across the room. Bakura reached across the table to touch him, tugged him close by grabbing his shirt.

Malik gasped, almost yelped, and shoved himself back against the wall. "D-don't...."

"Stop looking at them." Bakura had caught Malik's gaze and finally Malik didn't seem anxious to look away. Slower, the thief went on, "Tell me about koshari."

"What?" His throat still felt tight, but he wasn't whispering now.

Bakura was careful not to move, to keep Malik's attention away from the diner. "Why do you like it? What does it taste like?"

"It is good." Malik could hear a little of his own accent in those words, which was a rarity. He had worked hard to sound exactly like the people around him. Bakura didn't seem to have noticed, just kept still and calm, staring, leaving Malik steadied but uncertain.

The blond drew a quivering breath. "I like it...it tastes...like health." It didn't make any sense, but it was the only word he could think of to describe it. He felt better when he ate it, or he had in years past.

Again, Bakura didn't react to the oddness in Malik's words. He seemed to be waiting for Malik to go on, but it was a while before the teen spoke again. "Isis made it for me when I was a child." There was no shakiness in his voice now, and Bakura finally sat back a little, though he didn't release Malik's gaze.

The world seemed to have settled back into place. It exhausted Malik just to feel how still everything was now; he felt as if he'd fought his way through cement just to get to a place he could breathe. He folded his arms tight across his stomach and looked at the tabletop, though he still felt Bakura's eyes on him.

The waitress came and gave them water, promised to be back with food. Neither of them paid her much attention. Malik's mind wandered as he sat waiting. His thoughts slid down to the black sweater he wore, how warm it was, as if no cold could penetrate it. To the sore gash on his hand.

Shuddering, he looked quickly back up at Bakura, who was no longer watching him so intensely. Their eyes met. Malik turned away, feeling slightly anchored.

&&&&

Ryou had asked him to come to an after school activity. It was simple; paint murals for a new nursing home. Ryou drew the outlines and then told Malik to paint in and shade them as he wished. It gave Malik a few hours of time to move his hands and not think of anything but color, and after a few days he craved it. Ryou was more than happy to bring him along, and the rest of the group was warm enough to him.

A week passed, and Malik was as close to thrilled as he'd been in more than a year. He could be involved actively; his murals would be displayed, people would see them, like and praise them even. There were still hundreds of little touches that needed to be added, and only a month or so in which to do them, but Malik was determined to work hard at it.

When the rest of the group slacked, he nudged them on. A few went along, but some of the older members frowned at being told what to do. Malik ignored it, insisted that they keep working. He wouldn't tolerate the murals being anything less than gorgeous for the open house.

He sat at dinner with Rishid and Isis and described the colors, the shapes, the paintbrushes he was using, reminded them daily (sometimes three times daily) of the open house. He told them that Ryou's mural was going to be beautiful, though Paul's needed work. But Paul was lazy. He didn't understand the importance of what they were doing, and Malik hoped that Susan, the instructor, would kick him off of the team.

They only painted Wednesdays and Saturdays. Malik anxiously waded through the week, always thinking of what he'd add to his murals when he couldn't be there physically to do it. He went to Ryou's and Bakura's occasionally, chatting to one about paints and bantered with the other.

With three weeks to go until the open house, the painters were all anxious and worked themselves into a frenzy each time they got together. Malik was running low on pills, had begun counting them obsessively when he was home. Except for the peace of painting, he felt he might have been suffocated long since by the worry for Isis and Rishid and the guilt of weighing them down, the disgust with himself for not telling them how helpless he was becoming. Susan was less than pleased with most of the progress, and pushed her team to do more in the few hours they had.

She snapped at Paul, to Malik's grim satisfaction. Paul left silently, and Malik was given charge over the extra murals. He flitted from one painting to another, redoing the trees that Paul had butchered. Ryou offered to help, and Malik reluctantly accepted, though he outlined very specifically what he wanted done with it.

"Are you sure that you'll be able to get all this done in time?" Ryou asked quietly as he mixed colors on a stretch of wax paper.

"Yes. I'm nearly done with the horse over there; the cottage should be done by next Saturday. Then I'll have more time to work on the rest of mine." He glanced over his shoulder at where Susan was correcting another student. "It'd be a lot easier if I could come in on extra days, though. It's not like I'm doing anything else."

"You could come to school with me," Ryou offered.

Malik snorted. "I could if it wasn't so boring. I know what they have to say."

"That was a different school. And you never did finish home schooling anyway, right? You need school if you're going to get anywhere, Malik." Ryou didn't sound at all like he believed himself, but Malik opted to take his words at face value. He scoffed at them.

"Malik," Susan said quietly from behind him. "What are you doing with that tree?"

"He fu- Ah, I don't like what Paul did with the shading. I'm fixing it."

"We don't have time to redo the murals, Malik. Just finish what he was doing and then finish yours." She turned to walk away, Malik heard her boots on the plastic drop cloth.

"Yeah, I could do that, but I want it to look nice."

At that, she stopped walking and turned back to him. "What?" There was an edge to her tone that made Malik want to shrink away and bristle at the same time.

"I said," he turned slightly to look at her, "that Paul couldn't paint a motel room, much less a picture. I'm in charge of his murals now, and-"

"Do what I said!" Her eyes glinted dangerously. "Stop arguing with me and do it!" Silence had fallen over the room.

Malik resisted the urge to grab hold of something as his stomach fell. "But..."

"_Stop arguing! _We don't have time for you to fuck it up, do you hear me? Just do what I said and let's get this damn job done!"

Malik swallowed heavily, unable to find words to yell back at her. She went on irately, "Do you think just because I put you on those walls I couldn't find someone else to replace you? Do you know how fast the rest of the group would snatch up your work? You're expendable, and you're _really_ pushing me, do you understand?"

Malik felt his hands shaking and wanted to curse himself for it. He nodded, barely, and Susan stormed off. Ryou said nothing; like the rest of the group, he stared all the more intently at the walls. Malik couldn't make himself paint, though Ryou tried to get him to.

He sat outside as he waited for Rishid to come and get him, but the doors were always left open after the painting sessions to air out the fumes.

Malik was still quaking, slipping further into a granite-faced agony he had faced so many times before. A very distant part of him longed, begged, to turn on Susan. The rest of him felt only rejection and, a thousand more times more keenly than that, the spinning dismay of having lost this haven. The more he thought about it, the louder Susan's words echoed in his ears.

And then he heard Susan speaking again, in the present reality his mind did not want to exist in. "...I'm just so stressed out right now, I don't know what to do."

Desperate to stay in good graces, another student sputtered, "I'm sorry I've made this so hard."

"It's not you!" Susan sounded exasperated. "It's _Malik._ I mean, who does he think he is?"

A tear, so hot it almost startled him. Ashamed and incensed now, Malik rose and stalked away from the nursing home. As he walked he wrestled other tears so fiercely he felt sick with the effort.

"Malik!" Rishid's voice. The blond forced his expression to be blank before he turned.

When Rishid asked how the night had been, Malik lied and marveled at how cheerful he sounded, though Rishid didn't look convinced. Malik insisted on walking ahead in silence.

By the time they were halfway to the hotel, the pain had slid beneath Malik's consciousness, held back by a hungering absence, a creature whispering of hiding. Of resolution.

When he and Rishid finally got to their room, Malik opened the door and stopped. "Rishid, I wish to be left alone." If he spoke anymore...Rishid would know.

Malik's moods were something that his siblings had become used to by now, so Rishid went to Isis's room with only a tilt of his head and a second look back. Before there could be any second thoughts, Malik shut the door behind him, still shaking but now out of anticipation.

He kept Rishid's old knife under his mattress, rolled in a washcloth he'd stolen from the hotel. When he pulled it out, his heart throbbed in his ears, adrenaline spilled through his blood, drowning him.

Malik held the knife lightly, dragged it hard on the topside of his left forearm, expected blood. The thin blade only let a little spill and irritation goaded him to lengthen the incision. A shock of pain, a slick wave of sickening relief. He cut again, further down, again, going the other way.

Slash, drag, watch the little line of blood gather and threaten to run down. He grabbed a cube of ice from the ice bucket in the fridge and held it to his left, unmarked arm. He held the ice there until it hurt, then sliced into the numbed skin. Each mark let the frustration, rejection, sickness, confusion, agony...let all of it seep out to hang in the air a moment before dissipating.

He was nearly exhausted by the time Rishid knocked on the connecting door and asked to come in. Malik hadn't bled enough to have left any on the carpet, so he had only to hide the knife and put his sweater back on. He didn't bother to wrap the knife up before stuffing it under the mattress.

Giddy from the relief and numbed from the truth of what he'd been doing, Malik didn't have to work hard to smile at his brother. It must have been an unusual expression for Rishid to have stared so long at him, but Malik turned and disappeared into the bathroom before any questions could be asked.

&&&&

Malik woke to hear Rishid still in the shower. The light outside the window was gray, the bedside clock read 5 a.m. There was no pause between that waking moment and the moment memory intruded into his mind.

So much smaller now, the sense of rejection squirmed to the fore. He looked down at the slashed topsides of his arms and it vanished. Malik smirked, stood up, and pulled on jeans, a t-shirt and his black sweatshirt.

Despite how comforted he felt, the blade under his bed...frightened him. He did not want to be in the same room with it just then. He had nowhere else to go, but even the vending machines down the hall seemed preferable. Malik tried not to dwell on how jumbled he was beginning to feel as he left the room.

He ended up walking around the block, though it took a few hours as he kept pausing to rest on the benches. A small café caught his eye, so he took an outside table and had a glass of water and a few slices of toasted bread before going home.

He was just through the end of a _CatDog_ cartoon episode when Ryou called. "Hi. Um, I was wondering what you were doing for the rest of the day."

Malik didn't bother to mute the television. "Depends on why you're asking."

That took the other teen by surprise and there was a moment of silence. Eventually Ryou seemed to decide on telling the truth. "I was a little worried about you after last night. Susan snaps and it's kind of...hard to know how to take it."

"Hm." Malik turned the channel to an infomercial, hesitated, switched it to a talk show.

Ryou waited, waited, and then, "Do you want to come with us to a movie today?"

"Who's 'us'?" Ryou never included Bakura when he spoke, and the thief wasn't fond of most modern 'entertainment' anyway, which meant there had to be someone else there.

"Yugi and me. We thought we'd go see _Cages_."

A few weeks ago, Malik probably wouldn't have even answered the phone. He was hesitant now, but his mind was clear enough that the truth of who he was could peek through and he found that he truly _did_ want to see more of the world, even if it was just the inside of a theater. "Fine, why not. How am I supposed to get there?"

"We can come and pick you up on the way if you'd like."

"Yeah. But don't just walk past the desk clerk, tell her why you're here or she'll call the police." It had happened to their neighbors two nights ago. It still seemed funny.

"All right. We'll see you in a half hour or so."

"I'll be here." He hung up but forgot to add 'good bye' before he did.

An hour later, Yugi and Ryou were standing at his door. Malik left a note on Isis's night stand and didn't bother to turn off the T.V. when they left.

&&&&

Seto Kaiba usually got home in time to have dinner, do homework, help Mokuba study, and sleep. It was a comfort to be able to share even that much time with his brother, so he didn't take kindly to people intruding in on it.

Today his workload was just light enough that it looked as if he might be able to get home early enough to bounce ideas off of Mokuba before dinner. He had been hopeful, that is, until KaibaCorp's accountant, Reg, stalked in with a fistful of papers and a frustrated glower. It was the universal "what did you do to screw up your books now, Oh-Mighty-CEO?" expression.

Kaiba didn't stand up, but he did set his current paperwork aside, and he sat back to wait for Reg to speak first. Considering Reg had walked in without the usual go-ahead, that was quite generous.

"Did you write out a check for Forest Hills Institution?" The dark-haired accountant clearly had the copy of the bank statement in his hand, but Kaiba knew he wanted confirmation. For legality or simply as a power kick, Kaiba didn't know, and he didn't have time to really worry about ulterior motives.

"More than likely. Why?" On the other hand, Reg couldn't expect Kaiba to remember each check he wrote. Literally hundreds passed under his pen per day.

Reg tossed the papers on the mahogany desk and leaned forward, excitement and irritation dancing in his eyes. How anyone could be so enthused about bookkeeping was a mystery; if it had been anyone but Kaiba staring up at this man, it might have been frightening to see such 'madness'.

"I suppose you had a good reason for signing over so much money, but the problem is, it's fraud." He pointed at the Forest Hills letterhead, a message which thanked KaibaCorp for their continued charitable donations. "There's no such place. You've signed over six-figures over the past year to these people, and they're probably running off to Jamaica right now. You hear that? That's their plane, bye-bye."

Annoyed, Kaiba shot him a withering glare before turning his attention back to the Forest Hills folder. "Impossible. They're owed another check, they wouldn't take off without it. Take this matter to KaibaCorp's attorneys and make sure they know that I'm telling them to go after _everything_ these bastards have got. I don't just want my money back, I want compensation. Got it?"

"Got it." Practically humming with the thrill of the hunt, Reg scooped up his papers and trotted back out the door.

Kaiba smirked to himself before returning to his regular paperwork. The coming month promised to be hell for someone.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! And the characters within it do not belong to me. Neither does Reg Corona; in the real world, he is my dad's partner, and therefore belongs to the IRS.

A/N: Still reading? Good! My goal is to finish this thing before A) Yu-Gi-Oh becomes known as an antique, or B) before I lose interest. So enjoy, and I'll try to dish out chapters at a more reasonable rate.

Warnings for this chapter: As of October 10, it's unbetad. Both of my betas are busy in the _extreme_ and I decided not to bother them with it right now. So for now, if you want to, feel free to point out little mistakes or things that don't make any sense. It would be much appreciated.

_**Solace**_

_**Chapter 12**_

Kaiba Corp had a very strict dress code: uniform or suit, depending on your station. Your hair must be cut above the shoulder if you were a man, or tied back if you were a long-haired woman. The Kaiba brothers were, of course, the exception.

But then there was Reg Corona, the chief accountant. He looked out-of-place in a suit and knew it, so unless he had a remarkably important meeting he just came to work in jeans and a polo shirt. His hair was very long and dark with a few strands of gray, badges of a well-lived middle-age. He kept it in a ponytail, but even then it draped past his shoulder blades. His skin was deeply tanned, partly due to genetics and partly because of those teenage years he'd spent living out of his car with his wife, when they had traveled around learning the mundane financial laws of various countries.

When Seto Kaiba had taken over and cracked down further on the dress code, he'd fired Reg immediately. Two years and too many chief accountants later, he'd tracked Reg down and rehired him. Whether or not Kaiba liked it, the man was eerily good at bookkeeping for large companies. Once Reg had been in charge of accounting, no one else was quite up to par. Seto Kaiba required the best.

And besides, not many-if any-other accountants would be willing to hike through the woods on their day off to investigate a phony hospital. Reg had volunteered. Kaiba simply couldn't deny that Reg was a strange but too-difficult-to-replace asset to Kaiba Corp.

The last thing Dr. Newton expected to see that day was Reg Corona.

… … … … … … … …

An aide knocked politely on the open door to the operating room and waited to be acknowledged. The doctor finished rinsing blood and a strange pale green slime off of his gloves, threw the gloves into the garbage, and turned around.

"Yes?"

"There's someone here to see you from Kaiba Corp."

Dr. Newton frowned thoughtfully. "That's a surprise. Tell him I'll be down in a few moments."

The aide-Arthur was it?-nodded and headed back down the hall. Newton looked back at his sedated patient and re-checked all the vital signs, wrote instructions for the nurse, and turned to leave.

Partway to the stair well he stopped and snapped his fingers, as though suddenly realizing something deserved a sound. He went back to the patient's chart and, underneath the medicinal instructions, wrote "Caution: patient's skin is highly toxic. Do not handle patient directly."

Satisfied, he went to the lobby to find a long-haired visitor refusing a glass of water from Arthur.

"Good afternoon. I'm Doctor Newton." He flicked his gaze over the cut-off jean shorts, tinted glasses, and white t-shirt. "You're from Kaiba Corp?"

A nod and a brisk, "Reg Corona," was the only introduction the doctor was given before a red folder was thrust at him. "You accepted a charitable donation from Seto Kaiba?"

Newton took the folder, thumbed through copies of the checks Kaiba had given him. "Yes."

"Ah. Would you be willing to show or tell me what you did with all that money?"

Handing the folder back and trying not to show how unsettled he was becoming, Newton said, "Is there a law which will require me to show you?"

"Not in the city of Seaton, which Forest Hills is a part of. Barely." Reg smiled sharkishly. "But if you refuse, I already have grounds to call the police in on this."

Newton forced himself to smile warmly. "There's no need for that. I was only curious. Arthur and I will show you around."

As expected, Reg demanded to see more than simply the cafeteria and restrooms. He also wasn't satisfied with empty rooms or the excuse of "patients needing rest, not visitors". When he strayed too close to the Recovery Hall and operating rooms, Newton finally told him to leave.

He didn't think Reg would have looked more pleased if he'd been told he'd won a house in the Bahamas.

… … … … … … … …

Isis had said she'd be on the news. It certainly wasn't her first time on television, so Malik had at first not been the slightest bit interested. But 10 p.m. came and she and Rishid were in the other room making dinner, or just giving Malik space. And Malik was bored. Besides, it was possible Isis had something new to say to Domino.

The first feature was about the wild fire burning on the outskirts of the city, and the second was about global economy. Malik was about to change the channel when one of the reporters chirped, "And now for a truly bizarre story, unearthed by Domino's own Kaiba Corp."

The screen changed to a more somber-looking reporter standing in the woods on a familiar leaf-strewn dirt path.

Malik crept closer to the screen, his pulse screaming.

The camera moved up to the building as the reporter spoke. "This is Forest Hills Hospital. At least that's what they've been claiming, but if you've never heard of it, don't worry. Neither..." she paused dramatically. "...have the _patients."_ She carefully opened the door to the building and stepped inside.

Police officers were standing around the lobby, but the news crew continued straight past them, and up the stairs. "From what you've seen, it all looks like a hospital, right?" She stopped on the landing. "But up this hall, the police found something that shocked them."

Malik couldn't move, couldn't hear anything but the reporter and a strange hissing buzz echoing in his ears.

The camera moved slowly down the red hall and into the very same room Malik had hidden in.

"In these cages, the police found people sedated and with _animal_ parts grafted to them. I've been told that some of these people were so animal-like you could barely tell they were human." Cages, steel, police tape. The reporter stood on the edge of it. "I've been told there were over forty people found here, and twenty more who were being prepared for the surgeries. Down this hall, they found the operating rooms, which we haven't been allowed access to yet."

She moved away from the kennels. "Who was responsible for all this?" A photograph image filled the screen. "Raul Newton, a once-respected surgeon. He had been taken into police custody along with his staff of twelve. Meanwhile, all of his victims have been taken to a local hospital while police scramble to find their families. Live from Portland, this is Amber Jones. Back to the studio."

Isis's interview came near the end. Malik didn't really see any of the stories before it, and only vaguely noticed Isis's story because his siblings came in to watch it with him.

Neutrally, Isis asked, "What did you think?"

Rishid was watching Malik very closely, the teen noticed after a moment. And he was smiling faintly, because he'd seen Forest Hills or because of something from Isis's feature he couldn't guess.

So he pulled Isis into a wordless hug and when he let her go announced he wanted to go for a walk. The three of them went out into the fog together.

… … … … … … … … 

It was well past noon by the time Malik had risen and begun showering. Isis and Rishid were gone by now, housekeeping would have passed his room by, and it was still a little foggy and damp outside.

Hot water ran over the gashes on his arms, stinging, keeping his mind from wandering away.

He was free of Newton, and if anything could have lifted a weight from him, he supposed this would have been it. And it _did_ help; panic was far from him now, and he could feel his old confidence prowling ever closer. Yet so did the same misery he'd been enveloped by for months now. And he couldn't shake it away, couldn't fight it, couldn't explain it. It simply was.

The difference was that now he knew he should feel better, and he didn't. There was simply no _excuse_ for it, and so instead of allowing the grayness to fold around him, he became angry.

It was irrational to feel angry at himself, but it kept everything else at bay and he welcomed it. It was as close to feeling like himself that he'd come in nearly a year.

After what felt like a half hour but was probably closer to two, Malik got out and, without bothering to dry off or dress, lay down on his bed and listened.

It was something he'd done since his tenth birthday without really understanding. After that ceremony he'd had nothing to do but lay on his stomach in agony, and it got lonely when Rishid would leave. Sometimes the pain had been too strong for him to even think, and so he'd begun listening to nothing at all. After being forced to lie there for weeks, it had become something of a habit.

Malik had always been capricious, and in childhood when some sharp emotion would overcome him he would snap at Rishid or even Isis, but neither of them ever really reacted to it. Sometimes Isis would send him away as punishment, and he would run down unlit sandy corridors until he was panting and exhausted. Then he would sit near a lamp and hear darkness and water and his own tumbling thoughts. 'Listening' was a habit that had been useful when he'd grown and begun his hunt for the Pharaoh; it had kept his anger always burning, and it had allowed him to reach some of his most vicious schemes.

At some point in those long-ago hours, he'd begun hearing whispers. He heard them now in the daylight in a familiar hotel room, but they were faint and nothing half so threatening or chilling as that first voice he had created. And he could banish them. He knew that. He had banished a darkness that was far, far stronger than any whisper.

Then why couldn't he shrug off anything else? Emotions weren't truly more powerful than their master...were they?

Tersely he followed this vein of thought.

If he was honest, frustration wasn't even a feeling. It was a collage of emotion and color and actions and failures. It was an animal dragging his hopes and expectations through murky water. It stood by and waited until it could strip everything away, flay everything he tried to make himself be.

That was why he couldn't shake it off. Each time he tried, it fed frustration.

And yet...yet he wouldn't stop trying. That was inconceivable. There was nothing left at all if he stopped struggling.

Abruptly he stood up, had to wait for a wave of black dizziness to dissolve and then returned to the bathroom to dress.

It took an hour and a half to reach Ryou's apartment, but that was alright since Ryou wasn't even home from school yet. Malik had already resolved to wait inside for the other teen, so he walked around to the balcony. He carefully pushed the toes of his boots into the railing around the ground floor apartments, and then just as carefully climbed up to balance on it, grabbing the bottom of Ryou's balcony to steady himself.

He pushed up with his legs, prepared to shift his weight onto just his arms, and from there pull himself up against the railing as he'd done several times in the past. But as he took his weight off his legs, he found that he couldn't support himself. Frustration swept in as Malik had to allow himself to drop to the ground. He had _never_ been too weak to hold his own weight, not even as a child.

It took a moment of tense, afternoon-heated silence before he realized that the gray numbness was gone. Instead of emptiness there was smothered irritation, directed not at himself but at his surroundings. It was a childish reaction, but one that he always had and had never been able to change.

And for the first time in nearly a year, he felt the familiarity of who he was. He was too stunned to wonder that the only way he could recognize himself from a distance was through feeling annoyed. The fact was that he felt _something_ besides misery.

"Malik!"

That surprised exclamation had been Ryou, from behind him. Malik glanced over his shoulder, his agitation at the balcony fading quickly now that someone with keys was present. "You're home early."

There might have been a flicker of curiosity (as far as anyone knew, Malik couldn't possibly have known the other teen's schedule), but if so Ryou replaced it quickly with a smile. "Not really, I just finished a large test earlier than expected. I thought I'd come home and get something to eat before going back to school." He paused and sheepishly added, "Would you like to come in?" It was obvious that Malik would, since he was standing outside the building, but it was only polite to ask.

So the blond didn't answer, but instead led the way up to the door.

A/N: Kudos to the readers who predicted Kaiba would save the day! I considered a Rambo-type ending to the hospital, wherein Bakura and Ryou would jump in with truckloads of hand grenades and dynamite, but let's face it. Nothing is more scary than a pissed off accountant.


End file.
